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IDA    MAITLAND, 


NEW   YORK: 

LAMPORT,    BLAKEMAN  &  LAW. 
No.  8  Park  Place. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1861,  by 

CORNISH,  LAMPORT  &  Co., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  o^  the  District  Court  of  the  TJnited  States, 

for  the  SoiUhern  Distriot  of  NtJW  York. 


Stereotyped  "by  Vincent  Dill,  Jr., 
Nos.  21  &  23  Ann  Street,  N.  Y. 


=:^ 


=^ 


PREFACE, 


The  widely-extended  favor  with  which  former 
publications  of  the  "  Forget-me-not "  have  been 
received,  encourages  the  Publishers  to  offer  a 
new  volume,  to  which  new  attractions  have  been 
added.  The  illustrations,  by  some  of  the  most 
eminent  artists  of  the  country,  will  be  found 
superior  in  design  and  execution.  A  large  por- 
tion of  the  literary  contents  is  from  the  pens 
of  Southern  authors,  which  will  not  be  regretted, 
as  readers  of  the  North  are  but  too  little  ac- 
quainted with  the  genius  growing  and  blossoming 
in  remote  Sections  of  our  country.  Tn  variety 
and  merit,  the  tales  and  poems,  it  is  hoped,  will 
be  found  such  as  to  please  readers  of  all  ages, 
and  to  deserve  a  continuance  of  the  liberal  pa- 
tronage heretofore  bestowed. 


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Childreiv  at  Play, — By  Mrs.  Gilman,       .  9 

Daily  Petitiojns,         .....  10 

The  Diamond  Cross, — By  Caroline  Howard,  11 

Lines,           .......  47 

Prayer,       .......  48 

The  Buffalo  Hunt,            ....  49 

The  Fisher's  Child,  .....  53 

Sketch  of  John  Pounds,  .  .  .65 

Thank  God  for  Home  and  Friends,         .  61 

Giotto,  the  Painter,         ....  63 

The  Man-angel, 68 

The  Stuffed  Bat, — By  Mrs.  Martin,          .  73 

PiCCIOLA, 77 

Stanzas,— %  Mrs.  E.  F.  Ellet,  .  .  87 
Three  Chapters   in  the  Life  of  a  Little 

Girl, 89 

Be  Kind  to  your  Sister,            .         .         .  103 

The  Child's  Coffin, — By  Caroline  Howard,  113 
The  Miracle, — From  the   German  of  Krum- 

macher,       ......  115 

The  Sick  Man  and  the  Angel,        .         .  118 

The  Old  Servant, 120 


=^ 


=% 


q  contents. 

Thi^'  Child's  Companion,    ....       129 

The  Fall  from  the  Swing,  (A  True  Story,) 

— By  Caroline  Howard.       .         .         .       131 

Lines, — Bt/  Mrs.  Ellet,         ....       141 

Sympathy,  ......       142 

The  Rose  anf  the  Grave,  (From  the  French,) 

—By  Mrs.  Ellet,         ....       144 

Perseverance  againsi  Difficulties,        .       145 
The  Fading  Leaves — By  Mary  Hemple,     .       165 
Harry's  Dinner,         .....        167 

Early  Piety, — By  Miss  C.  TV.  Barber,       .       174 
The  Bonnie  Bairns, — A  Ballad,  .  .       180 

The  Spectre  Bat, — A  Dialogue  at  a  Mena- 
gerie, ......       182 

Busy  Idleness,   .  .         .  ,  .  .       168 

Joy  on  May  Morning,        ....       199 

The  New-Year's  Wish,       .  .  .  .       200 

Fairy  Land,  or  Jessie  and  her  Kitten, — 

By  Caroline  Howard,  .  .  .211 

The  Secret, — By  Jennie  Elder,  .         .       243 

Fanny  and  Louisa,   .....       244 

Go  Ahead,  ......       254 

HoNORiA  and  Jenny;    or   the   history   of 

THE      daughter     OF      AN      AMBASSADOR, 
AND   THAT   OF   A   COACHMAN,         .  .  255 

Harry  Hart  and  "Old  Buck,"— %  a  Lady,  262 


zi* 


^  ^=^--% 


IJjJjuSaB.AaIOH§i 


Colored  Title. 

Childrex  at  Play, — Frontispiece,          ,  9 

The  Fisher's  Child,          ....  53 
Three  Chapters   in   the  Life  of  a  Little 

Girl, ,  89 

Sympathy,         .         .         •         •         •         .  142 

Joy  on  May  Morning,     •         •         •         •  199 

Fanny  and  Louisa,          ....  244 


=^ 


)^^M^' 


CHILDEEN    AT    PLAY. 

BY    MRS.     GILMAN. 

Sport  on ;  sport  on  ; 
A  mother's  thought,  shadow  of  heavenly  love. 
Dwells  on  you.     In  her  home,  'mid  household  cares. 
Kindle  up  hopes,  which  deep  in  its  soft  folds 
Her  inmost  soul  has  wrapt.     She  musing  asks  : — 
What  his  high  fate,  that  boy  with  eagle  eye. 
And  well  knit  limbs,  and  proud  impetuous  thought ! 
A  patriot,  leading  men,  and  breathing  forth 
His  warm  soul  for  his  country  ?  or  a  bard 
With  holy  song  refining  earth's  cold  ear  ? 
A  son,  holding  the  torch  of  love  to  age 
As  its  closed  eye  turns  dimly  to  the  grave  ? 
Or  husband  wrapping  with  protecting  arms 
One  who  leans  on  him  in  her  trusting  youth .' 

And  for  that  girl — she  asks — what  gentle  fate 
Lies  cradled  on  the  softest  down  of  time  ? 
A  rosy  lot  must  garland  out  her  years — 
Those  sunny  eyes  with  laughing  spirits  wild. 


iO  DAILY    PETITIONS. 


Those  rounded  limbs  are  all  unfit  for  want 
Or  sterner  care.     Gently  will  they  he  borne 
On  beds  of  flowers  beneath  an  azure  sky. 
Oh  dreams — fair  dreams !    God's  dower  to  wwiian's 
heart ; 
Your  light  and  waving  curtains  still  suspend 
Before  the  future  which  lies  dark  behind ! 


DAILY    PETITIONS. 

Come,  angel  from  th^  mount  of  God, 

Stoop  toward  this  land  of  sin  and  gloom  ; 

Come,  spread  o'er  earth  heaven's  seed  abroad ; 
A  garden  to  the  Lord  shall  bloom. 

Eternal  Wisdom!    Power  divine  ! 

All  being  and  all  praise  are  thine. 

Yet  o'er  thy  ways  dark  clouds  are  driven ; 

The  Christian's  path  is  mystery. 

Yet  leads  it  wandering  souls  to  Thee  ; 

"  Thy  will  be  done — in  earth  as  heaven !" 

The  corn  shall  ripen  in  the  beam  ; 

In  summer's  bower  the  fruit  shall  shine ; 
White  flocks  shall  feed  where  fountains  gleam, 

Red  clusters  crown  the  mountain  vine. 
Bless  we  the  Lord  for  all — and  pray — 
*'  Give  us  our  bread  from  day  to  day." 


THE    DIAMOND    CROSS.  11 


THE    DIAMOND    CROSS. 

BY     CAROLINE     HOWARD. 

A  VERY  unusual  sight  appeared,  one  morning, 
before  Simon  Barton's  humble  door,  in  the  shape 
of  a  gorgeous  equipage,  and  a  pair  of  spirited 
horses  striking  the  ground  with  their  impatient 
feet.  Yes,  a  very  unusual  sight  it  was,  in  that 
dim  and  miserable  street,  to  behold  so  grand  a 
coachman  flourish  so  formidable  a  whip  over  the 
heads  of  such  glossy  steeds.  Why,  the  steeds 
themselves  tossed  their  finely  shaped  heads  in 
the  air,  eager  to  go  forward  on  their  way  ;  but 
the  elegant-looking  lady,  who  was  within  the 
coach  and  had  pulled  the  check-string  for  the 
coachman  to  stop  when  and  where  he  did, 
seemed  determined  that  they  should  await  her 
pleasure.  The  party  were  evidently  strangers 
in  the  city,  and  consisted  of  the  lady,  a  gentle- 
man, and  a  bright  and  beautiful  boy. 

"  Why  do  you  stop,  Agnes,"  said  the  gentle- 
man, languidly,  "  at  this  out-of-the-way,  forlorn- 


% 

12  THE    DIAMOND    CROSS. 

looking  place,  calltd  a  book-store  ?  You  know 
that  we  have  not  a  minute  to  spare  ;  for  the 
captain  told  us  he  would  certainly  sail  at  ten — 
and  if  the  vessel  goes  without  us,  I  shall  miss 
the  last  chance  I  have  for  recovery." 

"  Do  not  fear,  Albert,"  replied  the  lady,  as  she 
took  from  her  bosom  a  jewelled  watch ;  "it  is 
but  just  nine  o'clock,  and  they  tell  me  that  the 
wharf  is  very  near.  My  motive  for  stopping 
here  is  not  altogether  selfish ;  for  I  want  some 
books  for  both  of  us  to  read  on  the  voyage,  and 
though  I  have  unwisely  put  it  off  until  the  last 
minute,  I  possibly  may  find  something  even 
here." 

The  invalid's  eyes  grew  bright,  for  an  instant, 
as  the  lady  spoke,  and  he,  as  usual,  let  her  have 
her  own  way,  gazing  proudly  on  the  rich  beauty 
and  noble  air  of  his  lovely  wife,  and  then  sinking 
back  into  the  carriage  with  a  sigh  of  regret  and 
a  troubled  look  at  the  prospect  of  his  early 
death. 

At  the  door  of  the  humble  book-store  stood  a 
girl  about  ten  years  old,  who  had  a  weak-looking 
child  in  her  arms,  and  the  lady  paused  as  she 
encountered  her.  The  girl's  countenance  was 
one  of  peculiar  loveliness,  and  the  clear  hazel 
of  her  eye  was  uplifted  to  the  stranger's  face. 
§1 


THE    DIAMOND    CROSS.  13 

"  You  are  very  beautiful,"  said  the  lady, 
hastily.  *'  No — I  should  not  say  that^  for  it 
will  make  you  vain — I  mean,  I  like  to  look  at 
you  ;  there  is  something  enchanting  about  you 
as  you  stand  with  that  doll  of  a  child  in  your 
arms.  How  old  is  she,  and  where  is  the 
mother .?" 

"  Lotte  is  only  two,"  she  answered,  "  and 
sickly  most  of  the  time.  Ever  since  my  mother 
died,  I  have  taken  care  of  her,  and  she  told  me 
not  to  part  with  her  until  we  met  in  the  blue  sky 
up  yonder." 

"  Do  not  fear,"  returned  the  stranger ;  "  I 
shall  not  rob  you  of  your  treasure.  And  the 
father— where  is  he  .?" 

"  In  the  book-store,"  answered  the  child ; 
and  the  lady,  remembering  her  errand,  entered. 

Simon  Barton  showed  no  sensation  of  aston- 
ishment as  the  bright  being  stood  before  him, 
and,  advancing  from  among  his  dusty  books, 
asked  her  pleasure. 

"  Have  you  anything  new,"  inquired  the  lady, 
"  wherewith  to  while  away  a  tedious  sea  voyage 
— something  light  and  entertaining  ?" 

The  store-keeper  displayed  some  books  which 
were  by  no  means  new,  and  the  lady,  turning 
them  over  contemptuously,  said. 


14  THE    DIAMOND    CROSS. 

"  Why,  these  must  have  been  printed  before 
the  flood.     Have  you  nothing  more  modern  ?" 

"  It  takes  money  to  lay  in  a  new  stock," 
grumbled  the  man,  "  and  money  is  not  the  lot 
of  every  one." 

The  stranger  looked  inquiringly  at  him,  and 
said  to  herself,  "  I  see  that  you  are  poor,  but 
you  are  proud ;"  then  she  added,  aloud,  "  I 
will  take  a  dozen  of  these  books.  What  is  the 
price  ?" 

He  named  the  price  and  she  paid  it.  He 
carried  the  package  to  the  carriage,  and  then 
resumed  his  occupation  of  dusting  books. 

As  the  lady  again  crossed  the  threshold,  the 
girl  whose  strange  beauty  had  so  struck  her  met 
her  gaze. 

"  Here,  child,"  said  she,  ^'  take  this  trifle  and 
buy  a  new  dress  for  Lotte  and  yourself ;  and, 
if  you  are  ever  in  want,  remember  that  there  is 
•a  person  in  the  world  ready  to  help  you,  whose 
name  is  Agnes  Mordant." 

The  equipage  rolled  proudly  away,  while  the 
girl  stood  looking  her  mute  thanks,  and  soon 
after,  the  invalid  found  himself  reclining  upon  a 
sofa  on  the  deck  of  an  outward  bound  vessel, 
which  was  boldly  ploughing  the  waves, — his 
wife  cheering  him  with  words  of  hope  and  com- 


THE    DIAMOND    CROSS. 


15 


%= 


fort,  while  his  child  pressed  his  thin  hand  to  his 
little  red  lips.  A  deep  sleep  somewhat  refreshed 
him,  and  on  opening  his  eyes,  he  mechanically 
inquired  the  hour.  Mrs.  Mordant  again  referred 
to  her  time -piece,  but  an  air  of  consternation 
overspread  her  features  when  she  discovered 
that  an  ornament,  which  was  always  attached  to 
the  watch-chain,  and  which  she  wore  next  her 
heart,  was  missing. 

"  Mercy  !"  she  exclaimed,  "  my  diamond 
cross  is  not  here  !" 

Her  husband  looked  astonished,  but  answered 
her,  while  she  searched  about  for  it, 

"  You  will  soon  find  it,  Agnes,  in  the  folds 
of  your  dress." 

But  the  search  proved  unavailing,  and  at 
night,  Mrs.  Mordant  fairly  wept  herself  to 
sleep.  It  was  not  merely  the  value  of  the 
ornament,  although  it  was  of  almost  princely 
worth,  but  the  gift  had  been  bestowed  upon 
her  by  Mr.  Mordant  on  the  day  of  their  mar- 
riage, and  he  reqmred  that  it  should  not  be 
worn  for  show,  but  next  her  heart,  and  in  case 
of  his  death,  he  said  it  would  remind  her  of 
him.  A  thousand  thoughts  came  into  her 
mind  as  to  where  she  could  have  lost  it,  but 
she  could  not  account  satisfactorily  for  its  ab- 


r^ 


16  THE    DIAMOND    CROSS. 

sence.  No  on-e  could  have  stolen  it,  for  she 
never  took  it  from  the  chain  ;  and  she  at  last 
arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  the  ring  which 
was  attached  to  the  chain  must  have  snapped, 
and  that  she  must  have  dropped  it  in  the  city  as 
she  took  out  her  watch. .  To  regret  it  now  was 
useless,  for  their  voyage  would,  in  all  probabil- 
ity, occupy  two  or  three  months,  and  before  it 
could  be  advertised,  the  finder  would  have  ap- 
propriated it  to  himself  as*having  no  owner. 

We  left  Lucy  standing  at  the  door  of  her 
father's  book-store,  looking  the  thanks  she 
could  not  find  words  to  express.  Her  fine,  in- 
telligent face  was  lit  up  with  feelings  of  grati- 
tude ;  for  never  before  in  her  life  had  she  been 
the  happy  possessor  of  what  seemed  to  her  such 
a  large  sum  of  money.  In  her  simplicity,  she 
thought  it  would  last  Lotte  9md  herself  a  life- 
time, and  she  felt  doubly  rejoiced  at  the  gift, 
for  now  she  could  avoid  the  cold,  harsh  look 
which  her  father  invariably  gave  her  whenever 
she  asked  him  for  money  to  supply  even  the 
daily  necessities  of  life. 

^'  Let  me  see,"  said  she,  musingly  ;  "  Lotte 
shall  have  two  new  Sunday  dresses,  and  our 
bonnets  shall  be  freshly  trimmed  with  pink  rib- 
bon.    Then  I  shall  buy  father  a  new  vest,  for 


2^  —  =% 

THE    DIAMOND    CROSS.  17 

he  wants  one  sadly  ;  and  Betty,  for  her  kindness 
and  care  of  Lotte  and  me,  shall  have  a  handker- 
chief and  apron.  Then,  I  shall  purchase  a  new 
sugar-bowl,  for  the  old  one  is  a  very  miserable- 
looking  thing,  with  both  handles  broken  off, 
and — but,  should  I  not  show  the  money  to 
father  first .?"  And  acting  on  this  suggestion, 
she  entered  the  store  where  he  sat  counting 
over  his  late  gains. 

**  Well,  child,  asked  he,  "  what  do  you  want  .^" 

"  Oh  !"  answered  Lucy,  delightedly,  "  that 
lady,  who  must  have  been  a  queen,  has  given 
me  so  much  money  !" 

"  Money !"  said  the  father,  eagerly ;  "  Where  ? 
— How  much  ?" 

Lucy  displayed  her  treasure,  and  he,  clutching 
at  it,  took  it  from  her  tender  hand,  as  if  it  had 
been  his  own. 

"  Ten  dollars  !"  said  he,  triumphantly ;  *'  why^ 
His  a  rich  present,  surely,  and  will  purchase 
many  goodly  things.  Here  are  the  window 
panes  to  be  mended,  and  the  bill  I  owe  for 
bread  to  be  paid ;  then  there's  that  old  stand- 
ing bet  to  Ned  Burns  about  the  election.  It 
will  do  that  and  more,  too." 

"  But,  father,"  said  the  child,  reproachfully. 

"  Well !"  replied  he,  roughly. 


18  THE    DIAMOND    CROSS. 

*'  The  lady  said  it  would  buy  some  thing  for 
Lotte  and  me  ;  and  we  want  new  dresses  to  look 
neatly  in  at  Sunday  school,  and  many  other 
little  things  for  house -keeping  that  you  do  not 
know  of." 

"  You  have  plenty  of  dresses,"  returned 
Barton ;  ''  and  you  are  the  most  indulged, 
spoiled  child  in  the  city  ;  your  wants  are  end- 
less." Then,  seeing  the  tears  gather  to  her 
eyes  at  this  unjust  charge,  he  bade  her  be  gone 
from  his  sight ;  and,  while  she  led  Lotte  from 
his  presence,  he  pocketed,  with  a  miserly  gleam 
on  his  hard  face,  his  unjustly  acquired  gains. 
Lucy  did  not  weep  ;  for  the  scarlet  flush  on  her 
cheek  burnt  up  the  few  tears  that  flowed — but 
she  turned  her  eyes  upward  towards  that  heaven 
where  she  believed  her  mother  was  watching 
her,  as  if  she  had  said  these  words  : 

"  Mother,  thou  seest  it  all ;  thou  knowest  all 
my  sufierings  ;  thou  seest  how  hard  is  my  task  ; 
that  the  father,  who  should  cherish  and  love  me, 
is  harsh  and  unkind  ;  that  there  is  that  in  his 
nature  which  the  angels  must  despise,  and  which 
thou,  mother,  must  condemn — for  such  conduct 
helped  to  send  thee  early  to  the  grave.  What 
must  /  do  }  What  must  be  done  ?  Shall  I 
stand  idly,  and  let  it  all  go  on,  or  shall  this 


^  = 

THE    DIAMOND    CROSS.  19 

little  frame  and  weak  heart  try  to  reform  and 
make  my  father  better  ;  Weak  though  I  be,  I 
will  try,  even  if  my  reward  come  not  on  earth, 
but  in  heaven." 

In  a  mute  aspiration,  something  like  this, 
Lucy  made  her  resolve.  She  had  a  more  diffi- 
cult task  before  her  than  she  at  present  divined, 
for  her  father,  from  his  youth  stern  and  unyield- 
ing, had  lived  an  irreligious  and  careless  life. 
His  wife,  who  was  lovely  in  every  gift  of  mind 
and  person,  wanted  that  resolution  of  character 
which  could  make  such  a  man  happy,  and  she 
was  not  possessed  of  that  spirit  of  determination, 
the  germ  of  which  showed  itself  but  just  now  in 
Lucy's  resolution.  Thanks  to  the  little  book- 
store and  her  mother's  example,  Lucy  had  ac- 
quired a  taste  for  study  and- reading,  and  child 
though  she  was,  this  application  to  books  had 
given  her  a  refinement  of  manner  and  conver- 
sation which  children  do  not  often  possess.  All 
her  spare  hours  were  spent  in  poring  over  those 
volumes  which  her  father,  strangely  enough  and 
at  variance  with  his  usual  indifference,  selected 
for  her.  Every  one,  in  a  lifetime  has  had  some 
such  moments  as  these  now  endured  by  Lucy- 
She  felt  depressed  in  mind  and  body,  lonely  and 
miserable,  without  one  friend  on  earth  to  whom 


^% 


20  THE    DIAMOND    CROSS. 

she  could  appeal  for  sympathy.  She  was  called 
away  from  indulging  long  in  such  forlorn  thoughts, 
by  Lotte,  to  come  and  amuse  her,  and  although 
anything  like  amusement  was  foreign  to  her 
present  mood,  she  tried  her  best  to  entertain 
and  quiet  the  wayward  child.  They  sat  to- 
gether upon  the  stone  step  before  the  door  at 
which  the  great  carriage  had  stopped,  and  Lucy 
told  the  oft  repeated  stories  of  Cinderella  and 
Blue  Beard,  or  drew  from  the  corners  of  her 
tired  brain  many  a  wonderful  tale  of  her  own 
invention.  There  are  not  many  things  in  the 
world  more  tiresome  than  the  task  of  tale-telling 
to  a  fretful  and  impatient  child.  When  you 
have  exhausted  all  your  powers  of  invention, 
and  think  that  you  have  done  something  bril- 
liant in  the  way  of  unheard-of  adventures  of 
some  giant  or  ogre,  and  look  down  at  the  child, 
expecting  to  see  it  wrapped  in  thought,  or  ex- 
pressing thanks  and  wonder,  the  only  notice  that 
is  taken  of  all  your  exertions  is  expressed  in 
these  words  : 

"  Is  that  all ;  do  tell  me  another." 

And  it  was  thus  with  poor  Lucy  and  Lotte. 

"  Sing  to  me,  now,"  said  Lotte,   "  mamma's 

song."     And  with  a  heavy,  listless  heart,  Lucy 

warbled  the  nursery  song  that  Lotte  loved  so 


THE    DIAMOND    CROSS.  21 

well,  called  the  "  Idle  Grirl,"  while  Lotte  joined 
in  the  simple  chorus  contained  in  the  last  line 
of  each  verse. 


Oh,  sun,  bright  sun,  come  out  of  the  sky. 
Put  your  hard  work  for  a  minute  by. 
Give  up  for  a  while  your  endless  round. 
And  come  and  play  with  me  on  the  ground. 
But  the  sun  said^wo  / 

Wind,  cold  wind,  with  your  whistle  and  roar, 
Pray  do  not  toy  with  the  waves  any  more. 
Come  frolic  with  me,  that's  a  good  old  breeze,    . 
In  the  orchard  green  'neath  the  apple  trees. 
But  the  breeze  said — no  ! 

Oh,  water,  clear  as  you  flow  along. 
Come  close  to  my  feet  and  sing  me  a  song, 
Dont  go  forever  that  endless  way, 
But  pause  for  a  moment  and  with  me  stay. 
But  the  stream  said — no  I 

Little  blue  bird,  on  the  high  tree-top. 
You  have  nothing  to  do  and  you  will  stop, 
I'll  show  you  a  way  to  build  a  nest. 
An  easy  way,  the  nicest  and  best. 

But  the  bird  said — no  I 

Sun,  water,  and  wind  and  stream  say  no  ! 
I  too  to  my  task  will  quickly  go  ; 
I  must  not  be  idle  alone  all  the  day. 
But  when  my  work's  done,  can  I  come  and  play  i 
And  they  all  said — yes  ! 


22  THE    DIAMOND    CROSS. 

As  Lucy  sat  on  the  stone  step  there,  singing 
and  talking  to  the  child,  with  her  heart  any- 
where but  in  the  words  she  was  saying,  her 
finger  idly  traced  figures  in  the  sand,  for  she 
was  thinking  deeply  upon  her  newly  made  plans. 
As  she  turned  over  the  loose  soil  she  saw  some- 
thing glittering  in  it  like  a  sunbeam.  She  took 
it  up  and  found  that  it  was  a  brilliant  cross,  com- 
posed of  the  rarest  jewels.  Quick  as  thought, 
she  hid  it  in  her  bosom,  afraid  to  exhibit  her 
treasure  to  the  passers-by.  Her  nature  was 
not  one  to  conceal  any  circumstance  of  the 
kind,  but  she  had  an  undefined  dread  that  if 
she  showed  it  to  her  father  he  would  insist  upon 
keeping  it  for  his  own,  and  she  too  well  remem- 
bered her  experience  in  the  affair  of  the  lady's 
gift.  "  The  owner  must  be  found  at  once," 
said  she  to  herself,  "  but  how  ?  Shall  we  put 
it  in  the  papers  ?  Yes,  that  would  be  the  best 
and  most  straight  forward  plan,  and  then,  may 
be,  for  our  honesty  we  will  get  a  handsome  re- 
ward." This  plan  seemed  to  be  so  correct, 
that  not  doubting  for  an  instant  that  her  father 
would  accede  to  it,  she  rushed  into  his  presence 
with  the  glad  tidings  on  her  lips.  "  Oh  father, 
I  have  found  such  a  beautiful  cross.  Let  us 
have  a  good  look  at  it  before  the  owner  calls  for 


S»— 


THE    DIAMOND    CROSS.  23 

it.  Here  are  twelve  large  white  stones  encircled 
by  twice  as  many  red  ones.  I  never  saw  such  a 
perfectly  beautiful  ornament." 

"  Let  me  see,"  returned  the  father,  "  what 
you  have  found  ;  some  bauble,  I  suppose." 

''  No,  father,  no  bauble,  only  look  at  it." 

As  Lucy  held  it  up  a  sunbeam  coming  through 
the  window  lit  up  its  shining  surface,  and  a 
thousand  butterflies  of  imprisoned  light,  taking 
their  exquisite  colors  from  the  rare  diamonds, 
danced  over  the  walls  of  the  room.  Barton 
saw  the  sudden  light  and  looked  up  surprised  at 
his  daughter.  She  stood  there  before  him  like 
a  flower  that  had  sprung  from  an  old  and  decayed 
trunk,  so  different  were  the  child  and  the  man — 
she,  with  her  flushed  face  and  graceful  figure 
holding  up  the  cross  in  the  sunbeam,  with  her 
dark  eyes  turned  admiringly  towards  it — he, 
with  his  face  full  of  wonder  and  coveteousness 
looking  alternately  at  her  and  it.  He  sprang 
forward  with  greedy  eyes  to  take  her  prize 
away,  but  she  closed  her  little  hand  tightly 
over  it,  and  said  : 

"  Tell  me  first,  father,  what  you  are  going  to 
do  with  it." 

"  I  will  tell  you  afterwards,"  replied  he. 

"No,"  said  she,  coaxingly,  "  I  think  that  the 


%^ 


24  THE    DIAMOND    CROSS. 

cross  is  7nine  until  the  owner  comes  for  it,  for  I 
found  it  by  the  stone  step  in  the  street.  Now 
I  want  you  to  promise  me  to  advertise  it." 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  said  he  coldly. 

"  Promise  me,"  reiterated  Lucy. 

"  I  make  no  rash  promises,  child,"  answered 
Barton,  "  hand  it  to  me  instantly." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  father,"  said  the  troubled  gu-l 
earnestly,  "  I  did  hope  that  you  would  let  me 
have  my  own  way  about  this.  I  did  hope  that 
when  you  saw  this  rich  jewel  you  would  have 
said  to  me,  "  Lucy,  go  and  find  the  owner," 
but  I  am  afraid  that  you  are  not  going  to  do 
that !  Yes,  you  are,"  continued  she,  tenderly, 
"  I  was  mistaken.  I  think  that  you  are  looking 
more  kindly  now,  something  as  you  did  at  mother 
those  times  when  you  loved  her  best.  Your 
little  Lucy  can  go  and  find  the  owner." 

Her  father  deigned  to  take  no  notice  of  this 
gentle  and  politic  speech,  but  coming  nearer  to 
her  said  sternly,  "  if  you  do  not  give  me  that 
cross  I  shall  force  it  with  my  strong  hand  from 
your  tender  grasp,  and.  crush  them  both  perhaps  ; 
you  bold,  ungrateful  child." 

"Was  Lucy  angry  at  these  words  }  No,  not 
angry,  but  hurt.  Her  cheek  glowed  a  deeper 
crimson,  and  her  eye  fell  beneath  her  father's 


2^= 


THE    DIAMOND    CROSS. 


25 


%= 


fierce  gaze,  as  she  said,  "  I  will  give  it  to  you, 
father,  without  your  using  force,  because  you  are 
my  parent,  but  if  you  do  not  act  about  it  as  I 
ask  you  to,  I  think  that  some  day  you  will  be 
sorry  for  it,  for  your  conscience  will  tell  you 
that  you  are  wrong ;  and  Oh,  remember,  sir, 
remember,  that  there  is  a  God  who  sees  in  se- 
cret." Her  small  and  trembling  hand  unclosed 
and  placed  the  cross  within  her  father's  brown 
and  coarse  palm. 

''  Luc^j"  said  he,  after  examining  it  well, 
"  these  aTe  real  diamonds  and  true  rubies. 
They  willVmake  us  rich,  girl.  We  can  buy 
houses  and  grounds  with  them,  and  you  and 
Lotte  shall  b§  ladies  of  the  land.  Hurrah !" 
added  he,  in  a  sudden  burst  of  exultation,  "  I 
have  within  my  hand,  without  one  effort  of 
mine,  what  I  have  for  so  many  years  been 
wishing  for,  and  in  vain — riches,  riches,  riches. 
Say  nothing  about  the  cross,  Lucy,  as  you  value 
my  favor.  I  shall  always  keep  it  about  me, 
until  all  fear  of  detection  is  over,  and  the 
proper  time  comes,  and  then,  once  more,  hur- 
rah !" 

Lucy  could  not  sympathize  with  this  wretched 
spirit,  and  she  said  to  him,  for  the  last  time, 
"  Then  you  will  not  promise  me,  father .?" 


26  THE    DIAMOND    CROSS. 

"  Do  you  think  me  mad,"  replied  lie.  "I 
promise  you  nothing." 

The  poor  girl  rushed  to  her  own  little  room, 
and  throwing  herself  upon  her  humble  bed, 
where  there  were  no  witnesses,  wept  until  she 
was  tired  of  weeping.  Was  there  no  sunshine 
in  her  heart,  and  no  light  about  her }  She 
thought  not. 

The  next  day  her  father's  manner  was  sterner 
than  ever — he  evidently  wished  to  make  her 
afraid  of  him.  Her  good  morning  was  received 
coldly,  and  even  Lotte,  the  pet,  was  unnoticed. 
Barton  spent  hours  making  calculations  on  paper, 
and  when  he  knew  that  he  was  unobserved, 
counted  the  diamonds  and  rubies  over  and  over 
again.  It  was  a  difficult  thing  for  one  of  Lucy's 
disposition  to  take  meekly  the  harsh  rebukes 
that  were  showered  upon  her  every  day.  In 
the  extremity  of  her  anguish,  she  formed  plans 
of  escaping  with  Lotte  to  another  city,  there  to 
beg  or  work  for  her  bread — for  she  felt  persuaded 
that  her  father,  by  his  actions,  would  rather 
have  her  absent  than  there  ever  before  him, 
conscious  of  his  secret.  She  dared  not  reveal 
it  to  any  one,  for  her  habit  of  obedience  was  so 
strong  that  she  considered  herself  bound  to  her 
parent  by  the  holiest  ties,  and  moreover,  she 
%  


=% 


THE    DIAMOND    CROSS.  27 

feared  that,  were  he  detected,  some  dreadful 
punishment  would  await  him.  She  could  not 
often  yield  to  thoughts  of  flying  away  from  her 
father's  roof,  for  her  better  angel  came  and  told 
her  that  she  was  wrong,  and  her  whole  soul  be- 
came filled  with  the  idea  of  accomplishing  her 
father's  reform.  And  to  her  mind  there  was 
but  one  way  to  achieve  any  good,  and  that  was 
through  the  Bible  alone,  aided  by  the  guidance 
of  heaven. 

Lucy  was  an  early  riser,  for  her  tasks  were 
many;  her  father  rose  late.  One  morning,  as 
she  sat  down  to  read  her  usual  portion  of  the 
Holy  Word,  the  thought  struck  her  that  perhaps 
her  father  might  not  object  to  hearing  it  also. 
So  she  took  the  volume  and  knocked  timidly  at 
his  door. 

"  Are  you  awake,  father  .^"  inquired  she. 

"  Yes,"  replied  he,  "  but  what  on  earth  do  you 
want  of  me  ?     If  I  am  awake  you  woke  me  up." 

"  I  am  come  to  read  the  Bible,  God's  Word, 
to  you." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  Lucy  might  have 
counted  one  sixty  times,  but  her  heart  leaped 
with  joy  unspeakable  when  her  father  at  last 
said  "  Come  in,  child,  and  read,  but  hurry  and 
be  gone." 


28  THE    DIAMOND    CROSS. 

She  went  in  softly,  and  sitting  down  by  his 
bedside,  read  in  a  clear  sweet  voice  those  words, 
that  have  often  proved  a  comfort  to  the  sinner 
as  well  as  a  delight  to  the  Christian — the  beati- 
tudes. When  she  had  finished  she  arose  with- 
out saying  one  word,  returned  to  her  room,  where 
she  had  left  Lotte  asleep,  and  kneeling  by  the 
bedside,  prayed  earnestly  for  her  father  and  the 
sleeping  child.  What  could  have  been  the  old 
man's  reflections  as  that  angel  of  mercy  vanished 
from  his  sight  ?  Was  the  spirit  of  peace  left 
with  him,  or  did  his  hard  heart  know  no  peace  .? 
His  manner  continued  unaltered  towards  her  ; 
no  kind  words  passed  his  lips,  and  yet  she  des- 
paired not.  The  next  morning  found  Lucy  again 
at  the  dreaded  door.  The  same  awful  pause 
succeeded  her  question,  and  again  he  gave  her 
leave  to  enter.  Sometimes  she  would  read  a 
hymn,  with  her  musical  voice,  and  once  her 
father  asked  her  to  repeat  a  chapter  in  the 
Bible.  These  were  golden  moments  to  this 
dutiful  daughter,  and  the  bud  of  hope  bloomed 
in  her  breast ;  but  it  seemed  only  in  the  dim 
light  of  morning,  before  the  broad  day  shone 
through  the  closed  shutters,  that  the  influence 
lasted — sunshine  and  the  cares  of  business  dis- 
persed it  all. 


2^ 


THE    DIAMOND    CROSS.  29 

One  day  Barton  went  out  to  purchase  a  few 
new  books,  and  left  the  store  in  Lucy's  charge. 
While  Lotte  looked  over  some  pretty  pictures, 
Lucy,  feeling  that  this  was  a  real  holiday,  turned 
over  the  leaves  of  her  favorite  authors,  and  felt 
happy  and  free. 

She  sat  in  one  corner  of  the  store,  with  her 
brown  ringlets  falling  over  the  pages  of  a  book 
in  which  she  was  very  much  interested,  when 
she  heard  a  voice  softly  calling  her  name.  She 
looked  up,  and  Henry  Gray  stood  at  the  door, 
cautiously  peeping  in.  She  came  forward  and 
welcomed  him. 

"  Come  in,  Harry,  come  in,  and  see  what  a 
treasure  I  have  here  ;  a  perfect  edition  of 
Shakspeare  illustrated.  Is  not  this  Desdemona 
exquisite  ?" 

"  I  cannot,"  replied  Harry,  "I  am  afraid  of  your 
dreadful  father  ;  he  looks  as  sour  as  vinegar  and  as 
stern  as  that  old  bust  of  Socrates  on  the  shelf,  and 
covered,  I  declare,  with  about  as  much  dust." 

"  Hush,"  said  Lucy,  "  dont  speak  of  my 
father  so ;  you  know  that  his  health  has  not 
been  good,  lately,  and  then  the  want  of  more 
customei;s  in  the  store  worries  him  ;  besides,  he 
is  not  at  home  now,  and  he  wont  be  for  some 
time.     Come  in." 


30  THE    DIAMOND    CROSS. 

"  Well,  then,  seeing  that  the  coast  is  really 
clear,  and  that  there's  no  danger  of  my  being 
eaten  up  by  the  ogre,  I  will  enter  and  briefly 
tell  you  what  I  did  come  for.  We  are  going  to 
have  a  grand  time  on  the  first  of  May,  you  know, 
in  a  famous  pic-nic  out  of  town  ;  we  are  to  have 
flowers,  and  fruit,  and  fun,  and  also  a  queen ^ 
the  best  and  prettiest  girl  in  the  town,  whom 
we  shall  crown  with  white  rosebuds.  Mary 
Jones  and  Sally  Sparks  are  to  be  maids  of 
honor,  dressed  in  white  and  blue,  with  garlands 
in  their  hands,  while  Bill  Grreen  and  I  are  to 
play  the  part  of  esquires  to  our  queen.  She  is 
to  sit  on  a  beautiful  throne,  over-canopied  by 
evergreens,  and  not  even  the  sun  shall  dare  to 
shine  on  her  majesty,  or  I  am  no  true  knight." 

"  Well,  Harry,"  replied  Lucy,  quite  en- 
chanted, "  you  have  told  me  who  are  to  be  the 
maids  and  esquires,  but  you  have  omitted  all 
mention  of  that  most  important  personage,  her 
highness,  the  queen.  Will  Ellen  Burnet  take 
her  part }  She  is  the  best  and  most  beautiful 
girl  in  town,  and  then  she  will  enjoy  it  so  much. 
As  soon  as  father  comes  I  will  ask  him  to  let  me 
go  and  offer  to  take  care  of  her  sick  mother  for 
her,  while  she  is  away  at  the  crowning." 

"  Guess  again,  Lucy,"  replied  Harry,  "  but 


THE    DIAMOND    CROSS/  31 

no,  we  have  no  time  for  guessing — the  ogre  may 
come.      You  are  to  be  our  queen." 

*'  I,"  replied  Lucy,  astonished  :  "  father  wont 

let "     "  You  said  rightly,"  said  her  father, 

coming  in  suddenly  from  the  outside  where  he 
had  been  listening  to  the  latter  part  of  the  con- 
versation, "  I  will  not  let  you  act  any  such  fool's 
part.  You  have  play  enough  here  every  day 
without  being  an  idle  May-queen,  and  as  for 
you,  young  lad,"  said  he,  turning  towards  Harry, 
"  take  yourself  off  from  my  presence,  and  let 
not  your  shadow  darken  these  doors  again." 

Harry  walked  out  as  was  desired,  and  while 
he  scorned  the  old  man  and  his  rudeness,  he 
was  indignant  at  the  treatment  which  he  saw 
that  Lucy  must  be  subject  to.  She  did  not 
renew  the  subject,  the  mere  thought  of  which 
gave  her  so  much  pleasure  ;  for  she  actually 
longed  for  the  freedom  of  a  day  in  the  woods, 
but  she  knew  that  she  might  as  well  have  hoped 
to  move  aji  old  forest  tree  as  her  father's  iron 
will.  Still,  morning  after  morning  found  her  at 
her  post,  with  the  Bible.  Three  or  four  days 
before  the  eventful  first  of  May,  her  heart  was 
unusually  heavy,  and  when  she  finished  reading, 
the  tears  flowed  silently  from  her  eyes,  and  as 
she  rose  to  go,  she  gave  one  uncontrollable  sob. 


:d 


32  THE    DIAMOND    CROSS. 

Her  father,  astonished,  raised  himself  in  the  bed 
and  looked  at  her.  He  seldom  saw  her  weep, 
and  for  one  so  young,  she  had  acquired  a  singu- 
lar self-control,  and  he  felt  that  something  un- 
common moved  those  '  troubled  waters' — her 
tears. 

,  "  Come  to  me,  Lucy,"  said  he,  "  and  tell  me 
why  you  cry." 

"  For  nothing,  papa,  the  tears  would  flow  and 
I  could  not  help  it ;  there,  it  is  over  now,  see,  I 
am  not  crying  at  all." 

"  But  there  must  be  some  cause,"  returned 
he.  ''  Are  you  not  feeling  well,  or  was  there  any- 
thing in  the  chapter  you  have  just  read  that  made 
you  weep  .^" 

'  No,  sir." 

"  Do  you  want  to  go  to  the  May-day  celebra- 
tion .?" 

"  Not  if  you  want  me  to  stay." 

"  But  you  do,  child,"  replied  he,  "  and  you 
might  as  well  go  with  Lotte,  for  you  Ij^ok  a  little 
pale,  and  breathe  the  fresh  air.  There,  dont 
begin  to  cry  again — I  suppose  it  is  for  joy  now. 
Here  is  a  bright  dollar  to  buy  something  with 
to  make  you  look  smart,  and  another  to  get  some 
good  things  with.  Betty  can  go  along  with  you 
to  carry  them.     Eeally  you  look  so  happy  that 


THE    DIAMOND    CROSS.  33 

I  begin  to  believe  what  the  chapter  you  have 
just  been  reading  says — ''  it  is  more  blessed  to 
give  than  receive." 

*' But,  father,"  answered  Lucy,  quite  over- 
joyed, ''  will  you  not  go  too  >  Do  shut  up  the 
store  for  one  day  and  come  with  us  to  breathe 
the  fresh  air,  and  to  see  the  blue  sky  .?" 

''  Now,  child,  you  know  that  you  are  asking 
too  much.  Go  to  your  room,  I  hear  Lotte 
crying." 

But  Lotte  was  soon  comforted  when  she  heard 
of  the  plan,  and  she  pretended  to  be  doing  won- 
ders in  helping  Lucy  to  prepare.  The  first  of 
May  at  length  arrived,  and  a  more  bright,  beau- 
tiful, joyous,  and  child-loving  day  never  rose 
upon  the  earth.  Lucy  had  informed  Harry  of 
her  father's  altered  will,  and  he  had  made  every 
necessary  arrangement.  He,  together  with  a 
party  of  his  young  companions,  was  to  call  for 
Lucy  and  Lotte,  and  bring  them  home  again  in 
safety.  It  was  strange  that  Simon  Barton  was 
willing  to  trust  his  daughters  to  the  care  of  one 
whom  he  had  driven  from  his  house,  but  he  must 
have  felt,  inwardly,  that  he  was  worthy  of  the 
trust,  and  that  Harry  would  take  the  best  care 
of  them  in  the  world.  Lucy  stood  before  her 
small  defaced  looking-glass  and  tied  the  blue 


34  THE    DIAMOND    CROSS. 

ribbon  around  her  curls  with  a  simple  grace  ; 
saw  that  every  fold  in  her  white  dress  was  ar- 
ranged to  her  satisfaction,  and  said,  *'  Now, 
Lotte,  what  do  you  think  of  this  *  bunch  of 
blue  ribbon  that  ties  up  my  bonnie  brown 
hair  ?'  "  She  sang  the  last  few  words  and 
looked  altogether  so  joyous  and  happy  that 
Lotte  clapped  her  hands  and  laughed.  And 
then  they  both  laughed  and  embraced  again 
and  again.  In  the  midst  of  this  scene  of  child- 
ish rapture,  a  form  darkened  the  entrance.  It 
was  that  of  Simon  Barton.  Lucy  thought  he 
was  her  father  and  yet  not  her  father,  for  his 
grey  locks  were 'combed  smoothly  out,  while  his 
clothes,  unusually  clean  and  decent,  took  from 
him  that  air  of  vulgarity  which  was  common  in 
his  every  day  attire. 

"  You  dont  mean  to  say  that  you  are  really 
going,"  almost  screamed  Lucy,  ^'  Oh  !  how  de- 
lightful." 

"  To  be  sure  I  am,"  replied  the  old  man, 
cheerfully,  "  I  am  going  to  take  care  of  my 
little  queen,  and  the  princess  royal,  Lotte." 

Oh !  how  happy  she  felt  at  those  words. 
She  bounded  along  with  her  companions  like  a 
freed  bird,  while  her  father  took  charge  of 
Lotte,  and  even  lifted  her  in  his  arms  when  she 


THE    DIAMOND    CROSS.  35 

grew  weary.  Betty  followed  with  a  well  laden 
basket,  in  the  distance,  grinning  at  such  an  un- 
usual thing  as  a  holiday,  while  Harry  ventured 
to  address  a  few  manly  remarks  to  the  .trans- 
formed ogre,  half  doubting  his  own  identity  in 
venturing  so  near.  It  was  a  day  never  to  be 
forgotten  by  any  of  the  party.  The  queen's 
white  rosebuds  were  an  emblem  of  her  fair 
self,  expressing  youth  and  purity,  and  as  they 
were  half  hidden  by  green  leaves — modesty. 
The  table  was  laid  out  in  the  open  air  and 
loaded  with  good  things,  and  a  merry  dance 
ended  the  day.  — Simon  Barton  kept  aloof  from 
the  elder  portion  of  the  assembly,  but  his  time 
was  fully  occupied  by  his  care  of  Lotte  and  in 
watching  his  queen-daughter,  his  beautiful  Lucy. 
He  called  her  to  prepare  to  return  home  in  the 
midst  of  the  gayest  dance,  and  she  left  her 
pleasures  at  his  bidding,  without  a  murmur. 
On  their  return  home,  after  the  household 
wants  had  been  attended  to,  Lucy  ventured  to 
lay  her  hand  upon  her  father's  shoulder  and 
thank  him  for  his  kindness. 

•'  Thank  you,  father,"  said  she  ;  "  what  a  nice 
day  we  have  had,  and  only  think  that  you  were 
the  cause  of  all  our  pleasure.'? 

"  I  am  glad  you  were  pleased,"  replied  he  ; 


=91 


=^ 


36  THE    DIAMOND    CROSS 

"  you  were  a  good  child  to  come  away  from  that 
dance  when  I  called  you.  Are  you  going  to  bed 
now  ?" 

"No,  sir,  my  Bible  has  to  be  read  first — after 
so  much  enjoyment  I  should  be  doubly  thankful, 
— good  night." 

"  Stop,  Lucy,"  said  her  father,  and  then  fol- 
lowed a  well  remembered  pause,  "  you  read  it 
to  me  in  the  morning,  why  not  at  night  too  .^" 
Did  she  not  hope  after  that  ?  I  know  that  she 
did. 

Soon  a  change  came  over  Simon  Barton.  ' 
Some  disease  seemed  to  have  seized  upon  his 
frame,  and  to  Lucy's  sorrow,  he  refused  to  con- 
sult any  medical  man,  saying  that  he  would  be 
better  soon,  but  day  after  day  saw  him  sink 
lower  and  draw  nearer  to  that  "  bourne  from 
which  no  traveller  returns."  His  neighbors 
had  long  ago  been  driven  away  from  his  doors 
by  his  rude  conduct,  and  the  little  book-store 
became  more  unfrequented,  while  Lucy's  cares 
accumulated  each  hour.  She  did  not  know  that 
the  thread  of  her  father's  life  would  snap  soon 
and  suddenly. 

Just  four  years  had  passed  since  the  bright 
and  beautiful  lady  had  crossed  the  threshold  of 
the  old   book-store.     Lucy  was  now  fourteen, 
l^''-      =  .  —  —  ^ 


THE    DIAMOND    CROSS.  37 

and  her  numerous  duties  and  responsibilities  had 
given  a  thoughtful  shadow  to  her  lovely  face, 
while  her  tender  care  of  Lotte,  whom  she  tried 
hard  not  to  spoil,  was  touching  in  the  extreme. 
One  morning,  as  she  stood  at  her  father's 
door,  knocking  for  admittance,  she  thought  she 
heard  a  groan,  and  not  being  answered  by  the 
usual  "  come  in,"  she  entered.  A  sad  and 
heart-rending  scene  met  her  gaze.  Her  father 
was  stretched  on  the  bed  almost  lifeless,  trying 
to  articulate,  but  in  vain.  "  What  is  the  mat- 
ter, dear  father  ?  do  answer  me,"  she  screamed. 
''  What  can  I  do,  where  can  I  go  for  you  .^" 
To  her  appeal  the  only  thing  she  could  dis- 
tinguish was  the  word  "  call,"  and  she  rushed 
madly  into  the  street,  her  face  pale  as  death, 
and  her  long  ringlets  tossing  in  the  air.  Her 
wild  and  frightened  air  attracted  the  attention 
of  a  lady  who  was  passing  by  in  a  carriage,  and 
she  called  to  the  coachman  to  stop.  "  Child," 
said  she,  "  what  is  the  matter  ;  why  are  you 
screaming,  at  this  early  hour,  like  a  maniac,  in 
the  street .?"  "  Oh,  my  father,  my  father,"  was 
her  reply.  "  Where  is  he,  tell  me,"  said  the 
lady,  "  and  I  will  go  to  him."  "  He  is  very  ill," 
she  replied  breathlessly.  "  Oh  !  do  come  in 
and  see  him."     The  lady,  who  was  dressed  in 


38  THE    DIAMOND    CROSS. 

deep  mourning,  showed  by  her  sad  face  that  a 
great  sorrow  had  lately  passed  over  her.  She 
held  by  the  hand  a  beautiful  boy,  who  looked 
up  to  his  mother  in  silent  wonder,  and  followed 
Lucy  into  Simon  Barton's  room.  A  feeling  of 
recognition  came  across  the  lady  as  she  entered 
the  humble  store,  and  a  shade  of  pain  crossed 
her  lovely  countenance.  Yes,  it  must  be,  it  was 
the  store  from  which  she  bought  the  books  just 
before  her  departure,  and  they  were  never  looked 
into,  for  from  that  moment  her  husband  gradu- 
ally grew  worse  and  required  her  whole  atten- 
tion, and  at  last  died  a  lingering  death  in  a  for- 
eign land.  And  that  exquisite  frantic  child, 
just  budding  into  womanhood,  was  the  little 
girl  who  had  so  pleased  her,  looking,  as  she 
held  Lotte  in  her  arms  at  the  door,  like  a  child 
Madonna.  While  these  thoughts  were  passing 
through  her  mind,  she  entered  Barton's  room. 
A  glance  told  her  that  he  was  very  ill,  and  she 
supposed  from  his  imperfect  speech  that  he 
must  have  had  a  fit  during  the  night.  She 
dispatched  the  frightened  servant  for  a  restora- 
tive, and  after  he  had  swallowed  some,  his  speech 
returned  more  freely.  ''  Are  you  better  now  ?" 
said  the  lady  sympathizingly.  "  Better  in  body," 
he  replied,  "  but  I  feel  that  I  am  dying  ;  would 


THE    DIAMOND    CROSS.  39 

to  God  that  I  was  better  in  heart."  "  Perhaps 
you  may  not  be  so  very  ill  after  all,"  said  the 
lady  ;  "  but  if  you  feel  that  within  you  which 
tells  you  are  dying,  believe  and  you  shall  be 
saved."  "  But  I  have  done  so  many  cruel, 
so  many  unjust  things,"  returned  he,  "  that 
there  can  be  no  hope — none.  I  have  wronged 
my  angel  wife  ;  I  have  wronged  my  children  ; 
and  in  this  way  I  have  ruined  my  own  chance 
of  salvation.  Lady,  I  do  not  know  who  you 
are,  but  your  face  is  familiar,  and  you  look  like 
one  who  has  had  trials  and  overcome  evil.  Can 
I  ti:ust  you  with  a  few  incidents  of  my  past  life, 
and  will  you  take  an  interest  in  my  poor  orphans 
when  I  am  gone  .^"  The  lady  promised  the  al- 
most dying  man  what  he  required  of  her,  but  he 
was  interrupted  in  his  narrative  by  the  entrance 
of  a  physician,  who,  after  feeling  his  pulse,  de- 
clared that  he  could  not  live  through  the  day, 
nor  could  he  do  much  to  relieve  him.  He  left 
some  drops,  to  be  taken  at  intervals.  When 
Simon  Barton  heard  the  decision  of  the  doctor, 
he  looked  at  Lucy  and  laid  his  hand  upon  her 
head  and  said,  "  You  will  not  miss  your  old 
father  much  ;  he  was  cruel  and  unkind  to  you, 
my  daughter.  Pray  for  me.  Your  voice  I 
know  will  reach  heaven."     "  Try  and  be  calm. 


r;^ 


40  THE    DIAMOND    CROSS. 

my  friend,  for  that  dear  girl's  sake,"  said  the 
lady  ;  "it  is  not  too  late  even  now  to  take  up 
the  cross  of  Christ.  It  is  light  to  a  believer." 
"  The  cross,  the  cross,"  said  the  old  man  wildly. 
"Oh,  my  beloved  child,  my  Lucy,  would  that  I 
had  taken  your  advice  and  given  up  that  cross 
which  has  helped  me  to  so  much  sin.  Lady,  I 
have  here  in  my  possession  a  valuable  cross 
which  is  not  mine.  It  was  found  in  the  street 
by  my  child,  who  was  ceaseless  in  her  endeavors 
to  have  me  to  restore  it  to  its  owner,  but  I  was 
perverse  and  sinful,  and  kept  it  concealed,  hop- 
ing for  a  day  in  which  to  turn  it  to  my  advan- 
tage. If  you  will  take  it  and  exert  yourself  to 
discover  to  whom  it  belongs,  you  shall  have  my 
gratitude  here  and  hereafter."  He  took  from 
under  his  pillow  a  small  package  and  handed  it 
to  the  stranger.  She  seemed  in  a  dream,  and 
when  she  unfolded  the  paper,  a  scream  of  wild 
surprise  and  delight  burst  from  her  lips: "  Heaven 
be  praised,  it  is  mine  ;  his  gift,  and  found  at 
last."  She  then  related  to  Barton  how  vainly 
she  had  tried  to  remember  where  she  could  have 
lost  it,  but  now  recalled  to  her  mind  that  she  had 
taken  out  her  watch,  to  the  chain  of  which  it 
was  attached,  just  before  his  door.  "  Madam," 
replied  Barton,  "  I  have  no  excuse  for  keeping 


THE    DIAMOND    CROSS.  41 

it  SO  long  in  my  possession,  and  I  can  only  hope 
for  forgiveness  from  that  tribunal  to  which  I  am 
fast  going.  Come  here,  Lucy,  your  father's  eyes 
grow  dim,  and  as  you  stand  by  me,  you  look  like 
a  seraph  waiting  at  the  gate  through  which  I 
must  go  to  be  judged.  What  account  shall  I 
give  your  mother  of  you  when  I  meet  her  ques- 
tioning eyes  ?  Ah,  nothing  but  praise  can  ev^r 
attend  your  actions.  You  have  endeavored  to 
make  your  father  a  better  man,  and  if  there  is 
any  hope  of  forgiveness  for  me,  I  shall  trace  it 
all  to  your  gentle  care  and  forbearance."  Lucy 
sank  down  in  tearful  agony  upon  the  bed,  and 
sobbed  out  the  words,  "  Oh,  dear  father,  I  can- 
not part  with  you  now  when  you  are  so  kind,  so 
changed  ;  if  you  could  only  live,  we  would  all  be 
so  happy. "  But  this  wish  was  vain,  for  the  spirit 
wrestled  for  an  instant  with  the  body,  and  then 
took  its  flight  upward  into  the  presence  of  God, 
and  Lucy,  in  the  midst  of  her  new-found  joy, 
felt  that  she  was  indeed  an  orphan.  Mrs.  Mor- 
dant led  the  weeping  girl  from  the  room  and 
begged  her  to  moderate  her  grief  for  Lotte's 
sake,  who  was  playing  with  her  little  boy,  quite 
unconscious  of  her  father's  death,  but  Lucy  was 
inconsoUable  and  went  to  her  own  little  room  to 
weep  undisturbed.     The  only  furniture  that  this 


2^'  =: 

42  THE    DIAMOND    CROSS. 

room  contained  was  a  small  bed  for  herself,  a 
crib  for  Lotte,  and  one  chair.  No  carpet  cov- 
ered the  floor,  and  a  kind  of  wooden  chest  served 
the  inmates  for  a  wardrobe.  And  yet  Lucy 
loved  the  space  that  its  four  walls  inclosed,  for 
here  she  had  spent  all  her  happy  hours.  It 
was  a  sort  of  bright  place  from  which  she  had 
tried  to  shut  out  tears,  and  to  cheat  herself  into 
the  belief  that  her  life  was  full  of  sunshine.  But 
now,  this  beloved  spot  and  the  whole  world 
seemed  darkened  to  her.  Mrs.  Mordant  re- 
mained for  seveMil  minutes  in  deep  thought  in 
the  little  book-store.  When  she  looked  up 
from  her  reverie,  she  perceived  that  her  own 
child  and  Lotte  had  already  become  good 
friends,  and  the  sight  pleased  her  benevolent 
heart.  He  was  mending  a  little  wooden  cart 
for  Lotte,  and  boasting  of  his  strong  arm  all 
the  while,  and  she  looked  on  in  high  admiration 
of  his  superior  powers.  Mrs.  Mordant  left  them, 
and  knocking  at  Lucy's  door,  entered.  She 
looked  around  at  the  poverty  there,  shudder- 
ing, and  lifting  Lucy's  head  gently  from  its 
grief-stricken  attitude,  said,  "  My  child,  I  have 
come  to  make  you  an  oJOTer,  which  you  must  not 
refuse.  You  are  an  orphan  and  poor,  while  I 
have  countless  riches  at  my  command.     After 


THE    DIAMOND    CROSS.  43 

you  have  seen  your  father  carried  to  the  grave, 
will  you  come  with  Lotte  and  live  with  me,  and 
be  a  sister  to  my  Albert  ?"  Lucy  looked  at  her 
for  a  moment,  and  bursting  into  a  flood  of  tears, 
took  her  hand  and  kissed  it,  thanking  her  again 
and  again  for  all  her  kindness.  Then,  after  the 
funeral  was  over,  Mrs.  Mordant  took  the  chil- 
dren to  the  hotel  where  she  had  taken  rooms, 
and  they  remained  there  until  she  had  dispatched 
letters  to  her  home  to  have  everything  arranged 
for  their  reception,  and  had  purchased  something 
for  them  in  the  way  of  dress, 'more  fit  for  the 
sisters  than  their  present  garb. 

It  was  like  a  fairy  tale  to  Lucy,  when  she 
found  herself  before  the  elegant  mansion  which 
was  now  to  be  her  home.  A  flight  of  the  purest 
marble  steps  led  into  a  large  porch,  the  roof  of 
which  was  supported  by  four  immense  pillars. 
She  expected  every  instant  that  the  brazen 
trumpet,  of  which  she  had  read  in  "  Beauty 
and  the  Beast,"  would  sound,  and  that  invisible 
hands  would  lead  her  out.  She  was  tired  and 
worn  out  with  excitement,  and  availed  herself 
of  Mrs.  Mordant's  suggestion  that  she  should 
immediately  retire  for  the  night,  and  with  Lotte 
in  her  arms,  she  sunk  into  a  delicious  and  dream- 
less repose.     The  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens 


44  THE    DIAMOND    CROSS. 

the  next  morning,  when  a  kind-looking  servant 
girl  drew  the  curtains  and  told  her  that  Mrs. 
Mordant  had  sent  to  awaken  her.  Lucy  started 
up  and  looked  around  the  room.  It  was  the 
beau  ideal  of  an  apartment  for  a  young  maiden. 
A  white  muslin  curtain  drooped  over  the  richly 
carved  bedstead  and  shaded  the  large  windows  ; 
a  soft  carpet,  in  which  her  white,  bare  feet  were 
nearly  buried,  covered  the  floor.  A  door  opened 
out  upon  a  terrace,  in  which  plants  of  every  de- 
scription grew  in  beautiful  vases,  and  the  carol 
of  uncaged  birds,  chanting  their  last  songs  as  a 
farewell  to  summer,  met  her  delighted  ear.  A 
prayer  of  thankfulness  rose  in  her  heart  for  the 
kind  friends  raised  up  to  her  in  time  of  need, 
and  the  sisters  repeated  their  devotions  side  by 
side.  When  they  went  down  stairs,  Mrs.  Mor- 
dant received  them  with  a  mother's  tenderness, 
and  after  a  sumptuous  breakfast,  attended  by  tall 
servants  in  livery,  which  put  Lucy  again  in  mind 
of  enchanted  lands,  they  walked  into  the  beau- 
tiful gardens  and  gathered  flowers,  which  they 
tastefully  arranged  for  the  sitting  rooms.  Mrs. 
Mordant  tried  by  every  means  in  her  power  to 
make  Lucy  forget  her  late  bereavement,  and 
soon  smiles  played  over  the  beauty  of  her  face, 
and  she  learned  to  call  her  new  friend  '  mother' 


THE    DIAMOND    CROSS.  45 

and  to  take  an  interest  in  all  her  plans  for  im- 
proving the  grounds  and  in  educating  the  neigh- 
boring poor.  The  best  teachers  were  procured 
for  Lucy  and  Lotte,  and  soon,  with  their  natural 
talents  and  industry,  they  became  accomplished 
in  every  branch  in  which  they  were  instructed, 
and  the  time  passed  happily  away. 

It  was  a  few  years  after  the  removal  of  the 
sisters  to  the  home  of  Mrs.  Mordant,  that  my 
story  ends.  Lucy  was  sitting  in  the  luxurious 
parlor,  lost  in  deep  thought.  An  Italian  book 
that  she  had  been  reading  was  half  closed  be- 
tween her  fingers,  and  her  thoughts  wandered 
back  to  by-gone  scenes.  What  a  contrast  her 
Present  and  her  Past.  The  promise  of  her 
beauty  of  mind  and  features  was  entirely  ful- 
filled, and  her  form  borrowed  no  lustre  from 
the  light  of  foreign  ornament,  while  her  pure 
white  dress  was  an  emblem  of  the  heart  which 
beat  in  her  bosom,  unspoiled  by  change  and 
prosperity.  As  she  sat  in  deep  reverie,  she 
heard  a  footstep  and  Albert  entered.  With 
such  good  influences  about  him,  he  had  escaped, 
unscathed  so  far,  through  the  fiery  trials  of 
youth  ;  and  home,  and  home  alone,  was  the 
centre  of  all  his  joys.  His  fine,  manly  figure 
told  of  health  and  strength. 


46  THE    DIAMOND    CROSS. 

"  Still  reading,"  said  he  to  Lucy,  as  lie  ap- 
proached her ;  '*  put  down  that  everlasting 
book  and  walk  with  me,  sister  mine.  You  do 
not  know  what  a  sunset  you  are  losing,  and 
mother  and  Lotte  are  awaiting  us  in  the  orchard. 
Will  you  come  .^" 

"  Yes,  and  I  am  glad  that  you  have  come  for 
me,  Albert,  for  I  was  dwelling  on  a  dangerous 
and  sad  theme — the  Past." 

As  they  went  into  the  delicious  and  perfumed 
garden,  they  saw  Lotte  and  Mrs.  Mordant, 
linked  arm  in  arm,  approaching  them  in  the 
distance. 

"  How  fond,"  said  Lucy,  pointing  towards 
them,  they  are  of  each  other;  every  day  we 
are  bound  closer  together,  and  Oh,"  said  she, 
with  a  sudden  burst  of  gratitude,  "  how  kind 
your  mother  is  to  us.  How  many,  many  com- 
forts of  life  we  have,  to  which  we  were  not  born. 
I  am  happier  and  more  grateful  every  moment 
I  live.  What  a  blessed  fate  it  was  that  brought 
her  footsteps  to  our  humble  door  !" 

"  Say,  rather,"  replied  Albert,  "  what  a 
blessed  fate  it  was  that  brought  your  footsteps 
to  our  door,  and  which  has  given  me  two  sisters 
more  precious  than  all  the  gems  of  Peru." 

"  Hush,  Albert,"  replied  Lucy  ;  do  not  speak 


LINES.  47 

SO  extravagantly,  but  reserve  your  raptures  for 
higher  themes."  Lucy  smiled  kindly  on  him  as 
she  rebuked  him,  and  Mrs.  Mordant  and  Lotte 
came  up. 

The  deep  grief  of  Mrs.  Mordant  was  still 
fresh  in  her  mind,  but  the  gentle  acts  of  the 
devoted  trio  made  a  bright  spot  for  her  on  earth 
which  she  had  little  expected  to  enjoy,  and  as 
time  sped  on,  they  found  peace  in  leaning  upon 
thtit  Cross^  upon  which  the  Christian  builds  all 
his  hopes. 


LINES. 

0  !  HEARTS  that  God  hath  touched  can  tell 

How  o'er  this  earth — in  ruin  laid — 
Still  breathes  at  times  the  Sabbath  spell, 

'Mid  sin  and  sorrow  undecayed  ! 
What  sympathies  in  earth  and  air 
With  man's  appointed  rest  there  are ; 
And  how  a  light  comes  down  from  Heaven 
To  crown  the  day  that  God  hath  given ! 


-r'is 


-% 


48 


PEAYER. 

Wake  !  little  child,  the  morn  is  gay  ; 

The  air  is  fresh  and  cool ; 
But  pause  a  while,  to  kneel  and  pray, 
Before  you  go  to  merry  play — 

Before  you  go  to  school. 

# 
Kneel  down  and  speak  the  holy  words  ; 

God  loves  your  simple  prayer 
Above  the  sweet  songs  of  the  birds, 
The  bleatings  of  the  gentle  herds. 

The  flowers  that  scent  the  air. 

And  when  the  quiet  evening's  come, 

And  dew-drops  wet  the  sod, 
When  bats  and  owls  begin  to  roam, 
And  flocks  and  herds  are  driven  home, 
Then  pray  again  to  God. 

Because  you  need  Him  day  and  night. 
To  shield  you  with  His  arm  ; 

To  help  you  always  to  do  right ; 

To  feed  your  soul  and  give  it  light, 
And  keep  you  safe  from  harm. 


THE    BUFFALO    HUNT.  49 


THE    BUFFALO    HUNT. 

Chance  led  me,  while  travelling  in  the  far 
West,  into  the  company  of  a  noted  hunter,  by 
the  name  of  William  Carter,  better  known  as 
"  BuiFalo  Bill."  One  day  Bill  invited  me  to 
join  a  party  who  were  going  out  on  a  hunting 
trip  to  replenish  their  stock  of  Buffalo  meat. 
Being  at  leisure,  and  having,  in  the  little  West- 
ern village  where  I  was  then  staying,  few  sources 
of  amusement,  I  was  glad  enough  to  embrace 
any  opportunity  which  promised  to  afford  adven- 
ture and  excitement. 

Our  party  was  soon  ready.  We  were  all 
mounted  on  fine  horses  and  armed  with  rifles. 
We  carried  plenty  of  ammunition  and  provi- 
sions, enough  to  supply  our  wants  till  we  should 
reach  the  hunting  ground.  Most  of  my  com- 
panions were  native  backwoods-men,  who  were 
familiar  with  the  country,  and  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  the  use  of  the  rifle  and  to  the  life  of 
the  hunter  from  their  childhood.  The  party 
consisted  of  ten  persons  in  all. 


50  THE    BUFFALO    HUNT. 

I  have  not  room  to  tell  you  about  our  journey. 
I  will  only  say  that  it  was  a  pleasant  one  to  me, 
and  that  I  saw  and  heard  much  that  was  new 
and  interesting.  My  comrades  were  men  of 
rude  manners  and  rough  outside,  but  I  found 
them  intelligent,  frank  and  warm-hearted.  One 
of  them,  Jim  Hilton,  was  a  great  story-teller, 
and  amused  us  much  with  his  tales  of  back- 
woods life  and  adventure. 

About  sunset  on  the  third  day  of  our  journey, 
we  reached  the  borders  of  the  prairie  on  which 
we  expected  to  find  our  game.  Here  we  kindled 
our  fires,  and  encamped,  full  of  great  anticipa- 
tions of  the  fine  sport  we  should  have  on  the 
n^xt  day.  We  were  not  disappointed,  as  you 
will  see. 

"We  rose  early,  ate  our  frugal  breakfast,  and 
were  scfbn  mounted  and  ready  for  action.  We 
rode  out  upon  the  vast,  ocean-like  prairie  before 
us,  but  kept  near  its  borders.  We  advanced 
several  miles  without  seeing  £w  living  thing,  or 
hearing  a  sound,  save  our  own  voices,  and  the 
tramp  of  our  steeds.  At  length,  "  Bufialo  Bill" 
ordered  the  party  to  halt. 

"  I  hear  them,"  said  he.  "  We're  in  luck 
to-day.     We  shall  soon  have  plenty  of  sport.'' 

We   paused   and  listened.     At  first  I  could 


THE    BUFFALO    HUNT.  51 

hear  nothing.  But  the  practised  ear  of  the  old 
hunter  was  not  in  fault.  We  rode  on,  and  as 
we  approached  them  I  could  hear,  very  dis- 
tinctly, the  mingled  sounds  of  bellowing  and 
tramping,  made  by  a  large  herd  of  buffaloes. 
We  soon  saw  them  moving,  like  a  great  black 
cloud  along  the  surface  of  the  plain.  They  were 
feeding,  jostling  each  other,  fighting  and  paw- 
ing the  ground  with  great  fury,  and  kept  up  a 
perpetual  bellowing. 

"  The  best  way  will  be  to  hide  ourselves 
among  the  trees,  on  the  borders  of  the  prairie,'' 
said  Bill.  "  We  can  get  one  shot  at  them  be- 
fore they  see  us." 

We  were  soon  among  the  trees  and  bushes, 
awaiting  the  approach  of  the  herd. 

"  Now,  mind  your  rifles,  boys,''  said  our 
leader,  "  and  make  targets  of  the  fattest  ones  in 
the  crowd." 

When  they  were  near  enough,  we  all  fired,  at 
once,  into  the  herd.  Then  came  such  a  rush- 
ing and  bellowing  as  few  have  ever  heard. 
The  poor  animals  hardly  knew  which  way  to 
turn,  and  some  of  them  rushed  into  the  woods, 
towards  our  place  of  concealment,  and  we  with 
difiiculty  escaped  being  crushed  by  them.  One 
huge  bull,  which  had  been  wounded,  and  was 


% 

52  THE    BUFFALO    HUNT. 

very  fierce,  attacked  one  of  our  men,  and  though 
he  was  a  skilful  horseman,  he  narrowly  escaped 
being  unhorsed  and  killed. 

We  pursued  the  flying  herd  out  upon  the 
prairie,  and  fired  at  them  several  times  more  ; 
our  hunters  loading  their  rifles  as  they  rode  with 
great  dexterity.  We  then  turned  back  to  take 
possession  of  our  spoils.  Several  fine  animals 
had  been  killed,  and  securing  the  skins  and  the 
choicest  portions  of  the  flesh,  we  returned  to  our 
camp. 

We  remained  several  days  in  that  vicinity, 
and  had  further  opportunities  of  testing  our 
skill,  and  the  metal  of  our  horses,  in  the 
chase.  I  shall  not  soon  forget  my  first  Buf- 
falo Hunt. 

The  proper  name  of  the  animal,  about  which 
I  have  been  telling  you,  is  the  Bison^  but  he  is 
almost  universally  called  the  Bufialo,  in  this 
country.  The  true  Bufialo  is  a  native  of  Asia 
and  Africa,  but  is  often  domesticated  in  Europe, 
and  used  for  ploughing  and  other  labor. 


^  ^ 


THE  fisher's  child.  53 


THE    FISHER'S    CHILD. 

Through  all  the  morn  the  fishers  toiled, 

With  wonderful  success, 
Yet  naught  but  curses  passed  the  lips 

That  had  such  cause  to  bless. 

Three  hardy  men  were  in  the  boat, 

While  leaning  o'er  its  side, 
A  little  child  with  dimpled  hand 

Was  plashing  in  the  tide. 

Anon  his  arm  grew  motionless. 
His  large  wild  eyes  were  bent 

Upon  the  darkling  depths  below. 
As  on  a  book  intent. 

And  soothing  lessons,  strangely  sweet, 

From  out  the  lake  he  read. 
While  fleecy  trains  of  summer  clouds 

Were  floating  over  head. 

Too  heavenly  pure  his  visions  grew 

For  waking  hours  below. 
Then  sleep  upon  his  dreamy  eyes 

Let  fall  the  lids  of  snow. 


% 

54  THE  fisher's  child. 

Long  hours  lie  sweetly  slumbered  on. 

Till  tumult  met  his  ear. 
He  woke,  and  found  the  hardy  men 

Were  agonized  with  fear. 

Black,  ragged  clouds  across  the  sky. 

In  masses  wild  were  whirl'd. 
The  bearers  of  a  mighty  wind. 

That  seemed  to  shake  the  world. 

The  lake  appeared  an  angry  sea. 

And  with  each  boiling  wave. 
Still  nearer  to  the  rocky  shore 

The  tiny  vessel  drave. 

In  fixed  despair  the  fishers  sat. 

Amid  the  dashing  spray, 
And  each  upon  the  other  looked. 

And  wished  he  dared  to  pray. 

Then  spoke  the  child,  "We  need  not  fear. 

Our  Lord  must  with  us  be, 
For  all  the  morn,  his  loving  face 

Was  bending  down  to  me." 

He  ceased,  then  knelt,  and  to  the  clouds 

Upraised  his  trustful  eye  ; 
^Although  they  could  not  hear  his  prayer. 

They  saw  his  God's  reply. 

In  safety  round  the  rugged  point 

At  once  the  boat  was  swept, 
To  where,  within  a  sheltered  bay. 

The  quiet  waters  slept. 


SKETCH    OF    JOHN    POJJNDS.  59 

tures,"  though  his  discourses  would  scarcely 
bear  that  title  in  these  days.  He  would  interest 
the  smallest  pupil,  by  talking  playfully,  and 
indeed,  by  making  a  pleasure  of  his  task.  Giv- 
ing to  one  a  printed  hand-bill,  he  would  make 
them  spell  the  words  upon  it,  and  tell  him  all 
they  could  about  them.  The  pupils  of  his 
school  had  few  ''  text-books,"  as  we  call  them  ; 
old  newspapers,  leaves  of  books,  and  some 
printed  cards,  were  the  chief  sources  of  their 
knowledge,  besides  the  cheerful  lips  of  their  kind 
teacher. 

Thus  did  years  pass  by,  and  still  John  Pounds 
taught  the  ragged  boys  and  girls  of  Portsmouth. 
Yery  few  heeded  his  noble  labors,  and  none  re- 
corded them,  except  those  who  benefitted  by 
them,  and  made  the  record  in  their  hearts. 
Now  and  then  a  stalwart  man  would  come  into 
the  little  school-shop,  and  take  the  old  man  by 
the  hand,  reminding  him  of  the  time  when  he 
taught  him  his  letters,  and  gave  him  all  the  in- 
struction he  ever  received  in  youth.  It  was 
happiness  enough  for  the  poor  shoe-mender  to 
receive  such  tributes  for  his  goodness — such 
fruits  of  hi*  labors — and  he  remembered  always 
the  promise,  "  Cast  thy  bread  upon  the  waters, 
and  it  shall  be  seen  after  many  days." 


60         SKETCH  OF  JOHN  POUNDS. 

Many  a  boy  did  he  reclaim,  or,  what  was  still 
better,  preserve  from  vicious  habits,  and  prepare 
him  for  usefulness  in  after  life.  He  lived  a 
long  and  useful  life — ^having  more  than  filled  up 
the  measure  of  his  days — and  reached  the  age 
of  seventy-two  years. 

On  New  Years  Day,  1839,  while  he  was  look- 
ing at  a  picture  of  his  school — then  just  com- 
pleted by  Mr.  Sheaf — ^he  suddenly  fell  down, 
and  almost  instantly  expired.  His  death  was 
felt  by  many  to  be  a  public  calamity.  His  pupils 
were  almost  inconsolable  in  their  grief.  When 
they  came  the  next  day  to  school,  and  learned 
that  their  teacher  was  dead,  some  of  them 
fainted  with  sorrow,  and  many  sobbed  with  deep 
grief.  Day  after  day,  with  sad  faces  and  tearful 
eyes,  came  some  of  the  younger  ones,  and  ling- 
ered about  the  door  of  the  now  closed  school- 
room, receiving  but  sad  consolation  from  the  poor 
youth,  who,  like  them,  had  now  lost  his  best 
friend. 

"  Eagged-schools, "  as  they  are  called  in 
honor  of  their  founder,  became  popular  in  seve- 
ral parts  of  England,  and  those  of  Bristol 
acquired  much  fame.  They  accomplished  a 
great  deal  of  good  among  the  destitute  classes, 
who,  of  all  others,  most  need  instruction. 


THANK    GOD    FOR    HOME    AND    FRIENDS.       61 

The  name  of  John  Pounds  is  far  more  famous 
now  than  it  was  ten  years  ago.  While  he  lived 
and  labored,  the  world  knew  little  about  him  or 
his  work ;  but  when  he  ceased  from  his  labors, 
men  began  to  think  of  them  as  they  deserved,  and 
the  wise  and  good  are  now  willing  to  ascribe 
honor,  and  gratitude  also,  to  the  name  and 
memory  of  John  Pounds,  the  founder  of  the 
"  E-agged  schools." 


THANK  aOD  FOR  HOME  AND  FRIENDS. 

The  night  was  dark  ;  no  radiant  star 

Was  glistening  in  the  sky, 
And  with  a  voice  of  moaning  sad, 

The  winds  went  whistling  by  ; 
We  sat  around  the  cheerful  fire, 

With  thought  that  comfort  sends, 
Aunt  Mary  sung  with  grateful  heart, 

"  Thank  God  for  home  and  friends." 

And  while  she  sang,  a  hasty  rap 

Was  heard  upon  the  door. 
And  shivering  in  the  cold  there  stood 

A  woman,  old  and  poor  ; 


62       THANK    GOD    FOR    HOME    AND    FRIENDS. 

"  Oh  lady,  come,"  she  cried  aloud, 

"  Or  else  some  succor  send, 
For  at  my  hut's  a  suffering  child. 

Who  has  no  home  nor  friend." 

Aunt  Mary  threw  her  cloak  around. 

And  o'er  the  dismal  moor. 
She  hurried  on  with  hasty  steps. 

Till  she  reached  the  cottage  door ; 
She  heard  this  piteous  prayer  breathed  out, 

"  Oh,  Heaven,  some  angel  send 
To  bear  me  from  this  cruel  world. 

For  I've  no  home  nor  friend." 

Aunt  Mary  soothed  this  praying  child. 

Who  sobbing  told  her  tale. 
Of  how,  within  a  woodland  cot. 

She  lived  in  some  sweet  vale. 
Till  death  had  come,  with  icy  hand. 

Life's  silver  chain  to  rend  ; 
An^  both  her  parents  in  the  grave, 

She  had  no  home  nor  friend. 

And  while  the  winds  went  howling  by. 

In  tones  so  strange  and  wild, 
Aunt  Mary  reached  our  happy  home 

With  that  poor  suffering  child ; 
"  Now  sit,"  she  said  by  this  warm  blaze, 

And  while  the  flame  ascends, 
Oh,  children,  sing  with  all  your  hearts, 

*  Thank  God  for  home  and  friends.' " 


GIOTTO,    THE    PAINTER.  63 

Then  loud  we  sung,  with  cheerful  voice, 

To  Him  who  comfort  sends. 
While  fervently  that  child  sang  out, 

"Thank  God  for  home  and  friends  ;" 
Oh,  children,  by  your  happy  hearths. 

As  your  evening  prayer  ascends. 
Let  the  music?  of  its  burthen  be, 

**  Thank  God  for  home  and  friends." 


GIOTTO,    THE    PAINTER. 

Of  the  many  pleasant  stories  which  are  re- 
corded in  books,  of  the  humble  origin  of  men 
who  have  become  distinguished  for  great  attain- 
ments in  Art  or  Science,  that  of  Giotto,  an 
Italian  painter,  is  one  which  interested  us  very 
deeply,  and  we  will  narrate  it  for  the  gratifica- 
tion of  our  little  readers — simply  stating  that  we 
derive  the  story  from  the  "  Anecdotes  of  the 
Early  Painters,"  in  Chambers'  Miscellany. 

In  a  small  town,  called  Yespignana,  about 
forty  miles  from  the  beautiful  and  renowned 
city  of  Florence,  there  lived  in  the  early  part 
of  the  thirteenth  century,  a  poor  laborer  by  the 
name  of  Bondone.     He  had  one  child  only,  a 


64 


GIOTTO,    THE    PAINTER. 


son,  who,  though  he  had  no  advantages  of  edu- 
cation, exhibited  such  quickness  and  vivacity 
of  intellect,  as  to  delight  the  unsophisticated 
rustics  among  whom  he  dwelt,  and  to  fill  his 
poor  father's  heart  with  mingled  pride  and 
sorrow — pride  for  his  boy's  powers,  and  sorrow 
that  he  could  not  properly  develop  them. 

When  this  lad  was  ten  years  old,  his  father 
set  him  to  taking  care  of  sheep,  and  as  he  tended 
his  little  flock  in  the  meadow,  or  on  the  road- 
side, he  used  to  stretch  himself  upon  the  ground, 
and  indulge  his  young  fancy  by  drawing  in  the 
sand  or  upon  pieces  of  slate  stone,  any  of  the 
objects  around.  He  used,  for  pencils,  broken 
pieces  of  slate,  or  sometimes  a  pointed  stick, 
and  his  principal  models  were  his  own  innocent 
sheep. 

While  he  was  employed,  one  bright  summer 
day,  sketching  upon  a  smooth  stone,  a  horseman 
approached  him,  and  drew  near  enough  to  look 
at  his  work,  without  attracting  the  boy's  atten- 
tion. To  his  surprise  he  saw  upon  the  stone  a 
figure  of  a  sheep,  drawn  with  exceeding  spirit 
and  truthfulness. 

''  What  is  your  name,  my  boy .?"  said  the 
traveller. 

The  boy  instantly  springing  to  his  feet  and 


=^ 


GIOTTO,    THE    PAINTER.  65 

looking  startled,  replied,  "  I  am  little  Giotto, 
the  only  son  of  Bondone  — the  workman — if  it 
please  thee,  signore." 

"  Griotto,  eh  r"  said  the  horseman,  "  and  how 
would  Giotto  like  to  come  and  live  with  me,  and 
learn  to  paint  sheep  and  everything  else  he 
pleased?" 

The  child's  eyes  sparkled  as  he  replied, 

"  If  father  will  let  me,  I  will  go  any  where 
in  the  world  to  learn  to  do  that — I  will  go  and 
ask  him,  signore." 

"  Do,  my  child,  and  I  will  go  with  you." 

The  traveller  went  with  Giotto  to  the  cottage 
of  Bondone,  and  there  announced  himself  to  the 
laborer  as  a  well  known  painter,  Cimabue.  He 
asked  the  old  man's  permission  to  take  Giotto  to 
Florence  and  make  a  painter  of  him — a  request 
which  Bondone  first  wondered  at  and  then  con- 
sented to,  as  he  saw  that  Giotto's  bright  eyes 
wore  full  of  desire  to  go,  though  his  lips  said  not 
a  word. 

Giotto  went  with  his  kind  patron  to  Florence 
— the  great  school  of  the  arts — and  became  a 
pupil  in  the  studio  of  Cimabue.  His  progress 
was  rapid,  and  surprised  even  his  master,  who 
encouraged  him  in  every  possible  way. 

It  happened  on  one  occasion,  that  Cimabue 

—  ^ 


66  GIOTTO,    THE    PAINTER. 

came  into  his  studio,  and  seeing  a  fly  upon  the 
nose  of  an  unfinished  head  that  was  still  upon 
the  easel,  he  advanced  to  brush  it  ofi"  with  his 
hand.  Great  was  his  wonder  to  discover  that  it 
was  only  a  painted  fly — and  he  exclaimed,  eag- 
erly, yet  as  half  in  anger — 

"  Who  has  dared  to  do  this  ?" 

'^  It  was  I,"  said  Giotto,  who  now  crept  tim- 
idly from  a  corner.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  signore, 
I  did  not  think  any  harm  in  doing  it." 

"  Nor  was  there  any,  my  boy,"  cried  Cima- 
bue — "  You  are  a  painter,  and  I  am  proud  to 
confess  your  great  talent." 

Poor  Giotto  !  he  was  almost  too  happy  to  con- 
tain himself,  and  kissed  his  master's  hand  with 
delight.  From  that  hour  he  labored  with  greater 
diligence,  and  his  fame  soon  spread  abroad. 

One  day  he  received  a  command  from  Pope 
Benedict  to  send  a  design  for  a  church  that  was 
to  be  erected.  All  painters  were  also  architects 
in  those  early  days ;  and  Giotto  instantly  com- 
plied with  the  message.  He  took  a  sheet  of 
paper  and  drew  a  perfect  circle,  without  any 
instruments  save  his  hand  and  his  arm,  and 
handing  it  to  the  messengers  said  : 

"  This  is  my  design,  bear  it  to  his  holiness, 
for  I  shall  offer  no  other." 


GIOTTO,    THE    PAINTER.  67 

In  vain  the  messengers  remonstrated  with 
him,  and  at  length  they  departed  with  the 
circle.  The  Pope  had  wisdom  enough  to  see 
that  Giotto's  exhibition  of  his  art  was  perfect, 
and  he  sent  for  him  to  Rome,  where  he  con- 
ferred upon  him  rewards  and  honors.  From 
that  day  there  was  a  new  proverb  in  Italy, — 
"  Eound  as  Griotto's  0"  was  upon  every  body's 
lips. 

Giotto  thenceforward  received  the  patronage 
and  secured  the  friendship  of  the  greatest  and 
wisest  men  of  his  time.  He  became  intimate 
with  Dante,  Boccacio  and  Petrarch,  and  at 
length  the  poor  peasant  boy  of  Yespanagno 
died,  full  of  years  and  renown,  at  Milan,  in 
1836,  honored  alike  for  his  genius  and  his 
Christian  virtues. 

The  moral  of  this  beautiful  little  story  is 
brieiy  told  in  a  well  known  couplet : 

*'  Honor  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise, 
Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honor  lies." 


z^ 


68  THE    MAN-ANGEL. 


THE    MAN-ANGEL. 

The  heart-blossom  that  I  pluck  to  weave  into 
your  little  garland,  is  a  very  sweet  one — a  pale 
floweret  of  memory  that  often  opens  and  sheds 
its  fragrance  around  me  in  the  night  time.  It 
is  my  recollection  of  an  angel  that  I  once  knew. 
Now  I  see  your  eyes  begin  to  twinkle,  and  a 
smile  play  around  your  rose-bud  lips ;  for  you 
do  not  believe  that  I  ever  indeed  knew  an  angel, 
and  think  that  I  intend  to  "  make  up"  a  story 
only  to  amuse  you ;  but  I  am  serious  :  I  once 
knew  an  angel,  and  used  to  go  to  see  him,  and 
sometimes  he  would  come  to  see  me. 

How  do  you  suppose  he  looked  ?  Do  you 
think  his  long  sunny  curls  fell  over  shoulders 
as  fair  as  moonlight ;  that  his  delicate  feet  were 
like  mother-of-pearl  ;  and  that  his  wings  rustled 
softly  as  he  folded  them  together,  as  the  leaves 
of  the  aspen  do  ;  that  his  words  flowed  forth  a 
perpetual  music — an  unceasing  song  of  joy ;  and 
that  he  made  his  home  in  some  bright  star,  such 
as  Sirius,  to  which  he  would  float  ofi"  in  the  even- 


THE    MAN-ANGEL.  69 

ing,  looking  in  the  distance  like  a  silvery  cloud, 
amidst  the  blue  air  ?  You  are  all  wrong.  He 
was  none  of  that.  It  is  true  he  had  a  lovely 
face,  because  it  was  full  of  love  for  everything  ; 
and  his  lips  were  beautiful,  because  they  spoke 
comfort  to  every  body  ;  and  his  eye  was  full  of 
light,  which  it  had  drawn  from  Heaven,  and 
which  it  shed  upon  earth  ;  but  when  I  knew 
him  his  hair  was  white,  for  the  sorrows  of  many 
years  had  bleached  it ;  and  his  feet  were  encased 
in  stout  leather  shoes,  which  were  covered  with 
dust  in  travelling  from  house  to  house  on  his 
errands  of  charity  ;  and  his  clothes  were  very 
plain,  for  the  money  which  would  have  bought 
him  finer  was  given  to  clothe  the  naked. 

His  house  was  an  humble  one — a  long,  low, 
brick  dwelling,  that  had  three  rooms.  One  of 
these  was  his  school  room  ;  for  he  spent  many 
years  among  those  dear  little  beings,  who  are 
the  only  things  in  all  our  world  of  which  Christ 
has  said — ^^  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  Heaven." 

In  his  room  you  would  find  a  bed  and  a  table, 
a  cupboard  and  a  few  chairs.  If  there  were 
other  pieces  of  furniture,  they  were  usually  lent 
to  others,  who  perhaps  may  not  have  needed 
them  so  much.  Upon  the  wall  hung  a  few  pic- 
tures of  his  friends.  One  was  a  miniature  of 
1^-  '    '  -= 


70  THE    MAN-ANGEL. 

Thomas  Jefferson,  given  by  the  hand  of  the 
President  himself  to  this  Man- Angel,  and  I  have 
often  thought  that  the  great  author  of  the  Dec- 
laration of  Independence  might  veil  his  face 
before  this — his  early  friend. 

In  the  windows  of  his  room  were  sweet  and 
blushing  verbenas,  and  "  lady's  ear-drops,"  and 
blowing  roses ;  and  upon  the  table,  under  the 
window,  lay  the  old  Bible.  This  was  his  casket 
of  jewels,  and  hence  he  drew  the  ornaments  that 
made  him  so  glorious. 

How  often  in  this  room,  have  I  looked  at  the 
dear  old  man  and  his  gentle  wife,  while  their  two 
grand-children  played  about  the  door  !  and  I 
have  tried  to  think  of  somebody  in  history  or  in 
romance  to  whom  I  could  compare  him.  Some- 
times I  have  thought  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield, 
but  the  Vicar  was  not  so  pious,  and  I  have  said 
to  myself,  "No,  he  is  a  Man- Angel ;"  and  I 
have  felt  there  was  something  awful  in  the  pres- 
ence of  such  sublime  virtue. 

On  one  occasion,  after  a  severe  illness,  I  heard 
him  say,  "  Death  looked  me  in  the  face,  and  I 
thank  Grod,  I  could  look  him  in  the  face." 
Think  of  that  1  To  be  able  to  look  death  in 
the  face  !  and  with  that  serene,  high  look ! 
"Was  it  not  beautiful } 


THE    MAN-ANGEL.  71 

I  might  tell  you  many  stories  that  would  in- 
terest you,  and  make  you  love  this  being,  and 
make  you  love  virtue  more.  I  could  tell  you 
how  often,  when  I  have  been  weary  and  de- 
pressed, he  has  come,  and,  sitting  quietly  beside 
me,  has  spoken  to  me  like  a  messenger  from 
Heaven,  so  encouragingly  and  kindly,  that  he 
has  left  my  heart  gladdened,  as  he  has  gone 
forth  on  his  mission  to  pour  the  bright  waters 
of  consolation  on  some  other  drooping  head. 
He  was  an  apostle,  baptizing  every  heart  with 

joy- 

I  had  not  known  him  long,  when  a  dreadful 
sickness  swept  through  our  town.  Many  of  the 
people  fled  in  terror  ;  many  remained  trembling 
every  hour,  lest  death  should  enter  their  dwell- 
ings. Then  might  be  seen  at  all  times,  this 
Man-Angel — "  unhasting,  unresting" — making 
his  rounds  amidst  sickness,  and  suffering,  and 
death.  The  perverse  patient  who  refused  to 
take  medicine  from  all  others,  received  the 
bitter  draught  from  his  hand.  "  When  the  ear 
heard  him,  it  blessed  him  ;  and  when  the  eye 
saw  him,  it  gave  witness  unto  him." 

It  seems  but  yesterday  that  he  was  here 
"  with  us,  but  not  of  us."  At  last,  one  sad 
morning,  it  was  said, — *'  He  also  is  ill ;"  and 


72  THE    MAN-ANGEL. 

every  physician  in  the  place  was  around  his 
bed,  and  his  lowly  dwelling  was  crowded  with 
those  that  loved  him,  and  every  one  felt  it  a 
privilege  to  be  permitted  to  hand  him  a  drink 
of  water,  or  to  adjust  his  pillow,  or  to  wipe  the 
cold  sweat  from  his  brow.  There  the  rich  and 
the  poor  met  together  to  do  him  honor,  and 
they  tried  very  hard  to  save  him  ;  but  he  said, 
^ — "  Nay,  if  it  be  God's  will,  I  would  rather  die." 
And  one  would  not  wonder  at  this ;  for  it  was 
natural  that  he  should  not  wish  to  stay  with  us^ 
because  he  was  not  like  us  ;  but  he  wanted  to 
go  where  his  Father  was,  and  where  his  brother 
angels  were,  and  where  his  fortune  was,  that  he 
had  "  sent  before  him  in  the  shape  of  alms." 
Was  he  not  right } 

I  looked  on  the  face  of  the  dying  saint ;  and 
my  soul  kept  praying  silently  to  Grod,  that  the 
mantle  of  this  Elijah  might  fall  upon  me  ;  but 
0,  I  am  not  like  him  ! 

They  dressed  him  in  a  suit  of  clothes  which 
the  ladies  of  the  town  had  given  him,  and  which 
he  would  not  wear  while  he  lived,  because  he 
would  wear  nothing  he  had  not  paid  for  himself, 
so  independent  was  he  ;  and  then  they  spread  a 
white  sheet  over  him  ;  and  when  the  people 
were  gone,  and  the  house  was  hushed,  I  rever- 


THE    STUFFED    BAT.  73 

ently  turned  down  the  sheet  and  gazed  on  the 
face  of  death.  0,  I  have  seen  most  beautiful 
things  ;  beautiful  painting,  and  beautiful  sculp- 
ture !  I  have  gazed  upon  the  face  of  a  lovely 
woman,  until  my  heart  has  "  reeled  with  its  ful- 
ness." In  nature  and  in  art  I  have  seen  much 
that  is  a  delight  to  look  upon.  But  never, 
Tiever^  have  I  seen  anything  more  solemnly 
beautiful  than  the  dead  face  of  that  "  Man- 
Angel." 


-^V-NrTV/VVVVrv/VV— 


THE    STUFFED    BAT. 

BY      MRS.     MARTIN. 

What  is  strength  of  nerve,  mamma  }  inquired 
a  little  girl  of  her  mother  ;  I  do  not  think  I  well 
understand  the  expression.  I  can  best  explain 
it,  I  think,  by  illustration,  replied  the  mother  ; 
for  were  I  to  tell  you  it  is  firmness  of  body  and 
mind,  on  any  emergency,  you  would  still  enter- 
tain but  a  confused  idea  of  its  true  meaning. 
To  proceed  to  my  illustration,  then,  which  shall 
be  brief  and  simple. 


--% 


74  THE    STUFFED    BAT. 

Mj  friend,  Mrs.  G-regg,  is  a  person  of  great 
firmness  of  mind,  for  though  brought  up  in  plain 
circumstances  in  the  country,  and  suddenly 
translated  to  the  city,  where  wealth,  and  all 
that  it  can  command,  awaited  her,  yet  did  she 
resist  every  allurement  to  gaiety  and  fashion — 
keeping  on  the  even  tenor  of  her  way,  doing  and 
getting  good,  in  the  unostentatious  manner  to 
which  she  had  been  accustomed,  while,  instead 
of  "  gold,  and  pearls,  and  costly  array,"  she 
exhibited  only  "  the  ornament  of  a  meek  and 
quiet  spirit,  which  in  the  sight  of  Grod  is  of 
great  price."  But,  though  this  friend  of  mine 
manifested  this  firmness  of  mind,  or  strength  of 
religious  principle,  yet  from  constitutional  deli- 
cacy of  body,  and  want  of  proper  discipline,  she 
had  very  little  strength  of  nerve.  She  would 
faint  at  the  sight  of  blood  ;  she  would  tremble 
and  turn  pale  at  the  spectacle  of  a  wound,  and 
thus  be  incapacitated  for  rendering  any  personal 
service  in  such  cases.  She  confessed,  too,  to 
unreasonable  antipathies  and  prejudices ;  espe- 
cially had  she  an  abhorrence  of  bats.  She  was 
lamenting  this,  her  infirmity,  to  her  venerable 
friend  and  neighbor,  Dr.  B.,  the  celebrated 
Naturalist,  who  was  at  the  same  time  engaged 
in  the  minute  examination  of  a  bat.     But,  Dr. 


=^ 


THE    STUFFED    BAT.  75 


B.,  said  she,  I  think  we  can  do  a  great  many 
diifficult  things,  if  we  try^  and  I  am  going  to  try- 
to  overcome  this  foolish  weakness  of  mine.  I 
mean  to  assist  you  with  your  experiments  in 
natural  science  to-day.  I  want  to  help  you 
to  dissect  and  stuff  that  bat.  We  proceeded  to 
the  task,  said  Dr.  B.,  (for  to  him  I  owe  the  re- 
lation.) At  first,  she  turned  pale  and  trembled. 
Soon  wonder  and  admiration  at  the  admirable 
contrivance  and  design  displayed  in  the  forma- 
tion of  the  little  creature  overcame  every  other 
feeling,  and  adoration  of  the  Creator  took  the 
place  of  abhorrence  of  his  work.  She  then  re- 
quested that  she  might  perform  the  office  of 
stuffing  the  bat  herself,  without  my  assistance. 
Never  again,  said  she,  will  I  be  foolishly  afraid 
of  a  bat,  but  with  him  always  associate  the 
power  and  benevolence  of  his  Creator.  I  think 
I  have  to-day  received  a  profitable  lesson.  She 
was  nearly  through  her  task,  when  called  off  to 
some  household  duty,  she  stuck  her  threaded 
needle  in  the  skin  of  the  bat,  till  she  might 
return  and  put  the  finishing  stitch. 

In  about  half  an  hour,  when  she  had  performed 
the  duties  requiring  her  attention,  and  was  re- 
turning to  finish  the  bat,  a  great  commotion  and 
excitement  were  observed  in  the  yard,  then  loud 


% 

76  THE    STUFFED    BAT. 

screams,  "  he  is  killed  !  he  is  killed  !"  then  the 
body  of  her  eldest  boy,  borne  by  several  men, 
was  brought  in,  mangled  and  bleeding.  He  had 
ventured  too  near  some  machinery,  had  become 
entangled  in  it,  and  was  thereby  terribly  bruised 
and  lacerated. 

The  mother,  pale,  but  firm,  received  her  child 
in  her  arms,  gave  directions,  calmly  and  clearly, 
where  everything  was  to  be  found  for  his  relief, 
and  during  a  dreadful  surgical  operation,  on 
which  was  suspended  the  issue  of  life  or  death, 
her  unflinching  post  was  by  her  child,  encour- 
aging, soothing,  and  sustaining  him.  Admirable 
woman,  said  the  surgeon  ;  the  success  of  the  op- 
eration has  been  greatly  owing  to  her  assistance. 
Would,  in  the  course  of  the  practice,  we  might 
oftener  meet  with,  in  females,  this  noble,  useful 
strength  of  nerve.  When  I  returned  to  the 
room  we  had  been  sitting  in,  said  Dr.  B.,  I 
noticed  that  the  threaded  needle  left  sticking 
in  the  stuifed  bat,  was  removed.  It  had  been 
found  most  convenient  for  sewing  up  the  wound 
of  the  lacerated  boy.  I  thought  to  myself,  said 
the  doctor,  maybe  my  stuffed  bat  had  something 
to  do  with  that  mother's  strength  of  nerve. 
Certain  it  is,  she  had  received  from  it  a  fine 
disciplinary  lesson. 


^  -  '  — — '"   '  •" 

PICCIOLA.  77 

My  daughter,  while  we  should  neglect  no 
proper  means  for  bracing  our  bodies  and  minds 
for  the  duties  of  life,  we  must  not  forget  to  ask 
Grod's  blessing  on  these  means.  (My  friend,  a 
woman  of  prayer,  no  doubt  thus  enforced  her 
disciplinary  lesson.)  Thus  doubly  fortified,  it 
shall,  in  all  cases,  be  our  privilege  to  adopt  the 
language  of  Scripture,  "  When  I  am  weak,  then 
am  I  strong." 


PICCIOLA.* 

Charles  Yeramont,  Count  de  Charney,  was 
one  of  the  most  accomplished  and  wealthy  young 
nobles  in  France.  He  came  into  the  possession 
of  his  fortune  about  the  time  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte was  made  First  Consul,  and  during  several 
years  ranked  among  the  stars  of  Parisian  society. 
Unfortunately,  his  mind  became  imbued  with 
the  sceptical  philosophy  which  then  ruled  all 

*  The  charming  book  from  which  this  story  is  abridged,  was 
written  in  French,  by  M.  X.  B.  Saintine.  It  has  deservedly  be- 
come a  classic,  and  besides  being  an  exquisite  narrative,  it  is  so 
pervaded  by  a  moral  and  religious  spirit  as  to  commend  it  to  the 
Christian  as  well  as  the  scholar. 
%  


78  PICCIOLA. 

spirits  in  France.  Charney  possessed  all  worldly 
advantages ;  he  was  young,  of  fine  appearance, 
high  rank,  large  possessions  and  gifted  with  more 
than  common  talents,  which  he  had  well  culti- 
vated. But  Charney  was  unhappy;  nothing 
gave  him  satisfaction,  nothing  touched  his  heart. 
His  mind,  which  was  part  of  his  immortal  na- 
ture, was  restless  and  uneasy  because  limited  to 
worldly  knowledge  ;  bounded  by  earth,  the  as- 
pirations of  his  spiritual  being  were  checked  :  he 
saw  nowhere  a  nobler,  loftier  being  than  man, 
than  himself.  He  admired  nature,  but  she  was 
dumb,  she  did  not  speak  to  him  of  God,  for  in 
his  heart  he  had  said, ''  There  is  no  God."  He 
saw  around  him  only  imperfections  and  weakness 
in  his  fellow  men,  and  he  turned  aside  wearied 
and  disgusted  with  life. 

Seeking  excitement,  however,  for  his  active 
powers  could  not  rest,  he  engaged  in  a  conspiracy 
against  Bonaparte  ;  the  plot  was  detected,  the 
conspirators  punished  ;  Charney  was  imprisoned 
in  the  fortress  of  Fenestrella.  Here  he  had  no 
luxuries,  not  even  comforts ;  no  books,  no  writing 
materials,  no  means  of  amusement.  With  a  piece 
of  coal  he  wrote  sentences  upon  the  wall,  and  in 
his  bitterness  he  wrote,  "  Chance,  though  hlindy 
is  the  author  of  Creation .'"     He  engraved  de- 


PICCIOLA.  79 


signs  on  his  wooden  table,  he  passed  whole  hours 
buried  in  gloomy,  hopeless  revery.  He  saw  at 
a  small  window,  visible  from  his  own  grated 
window,  a  man,  a  prisoner  like  himself;  he 
inquired  of  the  jailor  how  the  man  amused 
himself. 

"  Catching  insects,"  said  Ludovic  with  a 
smile. 

Charney  had  detested  his  fellow-prisoner  as  a 
human  being,  he  now  despised  him  as  a  fool. 
But  which  was  the  wiser,  Charney  in  his  scep- 
ticism, or  the  man  for  so  many  years  a  prisoner, 
who  passed  his  time  in  praying  to  God,  for  he 
was  a  Christian,  and  in  making  a  collection  of 
insects,  from  whose  mechanism  and  habits  he 
learned  much  of  Grod's  designs  ? 

One  day  Count  Charney  sat  in  his  little  stone 
paved  court  yard ;  it  was  surrounded  by  high 
walls,  no  trees  or  vines  overshadowed  it ;  nothing 
was  to  be  seen  but  the  stones  at  his  feet,  the 
stone  walls  around,  and  a  little  sky  whose  brief 
sunshine  mocked  the  heart  of  the  captive .  Look- 
ing gloomily  on  the  pavement,  he  noticed  that 
the  earth  between  two  of  the  huge  stones,  was 
broken,  and  stooping  down  and  pushing  it  aside 
he  saw  a  blade  of  something  green  springing  up. 
He  was  about  to  crush  it  with  his  foot,  when  the 
% 


80  PICCIOLA. 

» — 

breeze  brought  to  him  a  breath  of  the  perfume 
of  flowers.  He  was  touched  and  interested,  and 
examined  the  little  stranger  to  see  how  it  had 
been  able  to  make  its  way  into  the  world ;  he 
saw  how  its  leaves  were  folded  up  and  covered 
to  protect  them  while  so  young  and  tender.  He 
mused  upon  this  adaptation  to  its  wants,  and 
resolved  to  cherish  the  plant. 

Day  by  day  the  little  leaves  unfolded  and 
deepened  in  hue,  the  stem  strengthened  and 
stoutly  held  itself  up  ;  the  Count  watched  it 
with  increasing  interest ;  he  saw  the  down  upon 
the  stem  and  asked  himself  why  it  was  there, 
and  the  next  morning  he  saw  the  hoar-frost  had 
lodged  upon  it,  prevented  by  it  from  reaching 
the  plant  itself.  When  the  wind  blew,  the 
tender  stem  bent  and  escaped  its  fury  ;  if  it 
received  injury,  the  sunshine  came  out  and 
healed  it,  the  pores  of  the  leaves  drank  in  dew 
to  nourish  it.  Charney  watched  it ;  "picao^<2," 
said  he — this  is  the  Italian  for  ''poor  little 
thing."  Count  Charney  was  really  touched 
with  affection  for  the  prison  plant,  and  when 
he  saw  how  it  was  nourished  and  cared  for  by 
its  Creator,  he  went  into  his  prison,  and  wrote 
upon  the  wall,  after  the  sentence,  "  chance  is 
the  author  of  creation,"  ''  Perhaps." 


PICCIOLA.  81 


By  and  by  the  Count  learned  that  Ludovic, 
whom  he  hated  doubly,  because  he  was  a  man 
and  because  he  was  his  jailor,  perceiving  his 
interest  in  the  plant,  watered  and  tended  it  for 
him.  Charney's  heart  softened  towards  him,  he 
began  to  believe  there  was  good  as  well  as  ecil 
in  human  beings,  and  he  gTew  more  loving  to  his 
species.  As  time  passed  on  he  fell  sick.  Lud- 
ovic nursed  him  tenderly ;  he  fancied  the  plant 
might  possess  valuable  medicinal  qualities,  since 
the  Count  was  so  careful  of  it,  and  when  the 
sick  man  became  delirous  and  death  seemed 
very  near,  poor  Ludovic,  in  his  despair,  cut  off 
some  of  Picciola's  leaves  and  made  a  strong 
drink  of  them  for  the  invalid.  Whether  the 
plant  possessed  any  power,  or  nature  was  about 
to  terminate  the  struggle  favorably,  I  cannot 
say,  but  Charney  at  once  grew  better.  When 
well  enough  to  walk  again  in  the  court  yard,  he 
regarded  with  more  affection  than  ever  the  plant 
which  had  become  not  only  the  mistress  of  his 
thoughts,  but  had  proved  herself  his  physician. 
Picciola  was  now  in  full  bloom.  Charney  ob- 
served the  flowers  following  the  sun  in  its  course  ; 
saw  how  the  petals  folded  themselves  when  the 
rain  was  coming,  and  finally  observed  how  its 
perfume  varied  at  different  hours  of  the  day. 


82  PICCIOLA. 


The  other  prisoner  observing  the  Count's  de- 
votion to  the  flower,  sent  him  by  Ludovic  a  mi- 
croscope which  magnified  a  hundred  times  the 
beauties  of  his  favorite.  Charney  was  all  grat- 
itude to  the  owner  of  the  microscope  and  to  the 
jailor.  Girhardi,  so  the  prisoner  was  called, 
possessed  one  child,  Theresa  ;  she  was  good  and 
beautiful,  of  rare  gifts  and  entirely  devoted  to 
her  father,  whose  imprisonment  was  her  only 
thought,  her  constant  grief.  She  came  often  to 
see  her  father,  and  from  his  window  observed 
and  became  interested  in  Charney.  It  was  to 
her  thoughtful  kindness  he  owed  the  invaluable 
microscope,  which  Girhardi  insisted  on  his  re- 
taining. He  was  overwhelmed  with  gratitude, 
and  he  considered  that  he  owed  it  all  to  Picciola. 
He  blessed  the  little  flower  which  had  restored 
to  him  his  humanity ;  but  for  her  these  men 
would  still  be  despised.  He  blessed  her  that 
she  had  taught  him  lessons  of  her  Creator,  of 
God,  of  Heaven, — for  if  there  is  a  God  there  is 
a  Heaven,  an  Eternity.  He  had  written  upon 
the  wall,  "  God  is  hut  a  word  ;"  he  added  to  it, 
"/^  not  this  word  the  one  which  explains  the  enigma 
of  the  Universe  7^^ 

But  a  change  came  over  Picciola  ;  she  faded, 
she  drooped.    Charney  was  alarmed  ;  he  watered 


PICCIOLA.  83 


and  supported  her,  but  to  no  purpose  ;  the  open- 
ing between  the  two  stones  was  too  narrow, — 
they  were  pressing  upon  the  stem,  and  Picciola 
would  die  !  Neither  jailor  nor  superintendant 
could  give  him  permission  to  remove  the  stones. 
He  hastened  to  his  chamber  almost  in  despair, 
but  there  was  one  hope.  Girhardi  had  found 
means  to  inform  him  that  Napoleon,  now  Em- 
peror, was  going  to  Milan  ;  he  would  pass  not 
far  from  Fenestrella.  Charney  took  one  of  his 
finest  handkerchiefs,  he  made  ink  of  soot  and 
water,  and  wrote  upon  the  handkerchief  a  peti- 
tion to  the  Emperor — ^for  liberty  ?  Oh,  no  ! 
for  permission  to  remove  the  flagstones  of ^  the 
yard,  that  his  Picciola  might  not  die  !  Theresa 
undertook  to  carry  the  petition  : — tied  to  a 
string,  Grirhardi  drew  it  up  into  his  prison,  and 
Theresa  set  out  for  Turin,  where  the  Emperor 
was  said  to  be.  When  she  arrived  there,  he  had 
gone  to  Alexandria,  double  the  distance  poor 
Theresa  had  already  traversed.  She  was  almost 
hopeless,  but  quite  so  when  her  guide  refused  to 
accompany  her  any  farther.  But  money  and 
earnestness  procured  her  a  conveyance,  and  she 
at  length  reached  Marengo,  where  the  Emperor 
was  holding  a  review  of  his  troops  in  commem- 
oration of  his  victory  there,  five  years  before. 


% 

84  PICCIOLA. 

She  hastened  and  presented  her  petition — she 
was  refused  ! 

Poor  Charney  !  Theresa  was  forbidden  to  ap- 
proach the  prisoner  again.  Officers  were  sent 
to  enquire  into  the  loose  control  which  allowed 
Charney  to  send  a  petition  to  the  Emperor. 
His  room  was  examined,  the  jailor  reprimanded  : 
— Charney  had  built  a  little  shelter  of  sticks 
about  Picciola,  to  protect  her  from  sun  and  wind 
- — the  superintendant  tore  it  down  ;  the  bench 
on  which  he  had  sat  to  watch  her  was  ordered 
to  be  carried  away ;  they  were  about  to  kill 
Picciola  ;  Charney  was  in  agony.  Just  then 
two  strangers  appeared,  a  paper  was  put  into 
his  hands,  and  he  read  a  gracious  missive  signed 
by  the  lovely  hand  of  the  most  amiable  of  women, 
Josephine.  She  said  the  Emperor  had  granted 
the  Count's  petition,  and  she  recommended  the 
Count  to  the  especial  favor  of  the  jailor. 

"  Long  live  the  Empress  !"  shouted  Ludovic. 

Charney  kissed  the  signature,  and  was  mute^. 

As  days  passed  on,  Charney  was  happy  in  his 
love  for  his  flower,  in  the  favors  he  procured  for 
her  and  himself  through  the  jailor ;  but  poor 
Grirhardi  was  unable  to  communicate  with  him  ; 
over  him  the  watch  was  redoubled ;  for  him  no 
Josephine  had  yet  been  moved  to  petition.  One 
%  =-^0 


— % 

PICCIOLA.  85 


day  a  paper  fell  at  Charney's  feet — he  read  on 
it,  '^  Hope,  and  tell  your  neighbor  to  hope^for 
God  does  not  forget  you.'^^  Poor  Theresa  !  she 
wrote  it,  and  knew  not  that  Charney  could  no 
longer  speak  to  her  father. 

But  the  next  morning  a  great  happiness  was 
in  store  for  him  ;  Grirhardi  was  removed  into  the 
next  chamber  to  his  own :  the  friends  for  the 
first  time  met.  Theresa  had  not  petitioned  for 
their  happiness  in  vain  ;  once  near  Josephine, 
her  father  must  receive  some  favor.  The  old 
man,  we  have  said,  was  a  Christian  ;  his  only 
son  had  died  in  the  service  of  Napoleon  ;  base 
perjurors  had  informed  the  Emperor  that  Gir- 
hardi,  exasperated  against  him,  sought  his  life, 
and  for  this  he  was  imprisoned.  Now  that  he 
and  Charney  were  together,  he  every  day  in- 
structed the  Count  in  spiritual  wisdom.  With 
Picciola  for  a  text  book,  he  expounded  to  him 
the  evidences  of  a  God,  as  visible  in  all  His 
works,  until,  with  Newton,  Charney  could  ex- 
claim : 

"  The  universe  is  one  perfect  whole — all  is 
harmony— all  the  evidence  of  one  Almighty 
Will.  Our  feeble  minds  cannot  grasp  it  at 
once,  but  we  know,  from  the  perfection  of  parts, 
that  it  is  so." 


86  PICCIOLA. 


But  Girha-rdi  was  soon  released  from  all  cap- 
tivity ;  the  good  Empress  interceded  for  him, 
and  Theresa,  the  noble  Theresa,  was  worthy  the 
happiness  she  enjoyed  when,  as  a  messenger  of 
liberty,  she  came  to  remove  him  from  his  prison. 
Charney  saw  her  for  the  first  time.  As  he  had 
mused  beside  his  flower,  Picciola  had  often  ap- 
peared before  him  in  the  semblance  of  a  young 
and  exceedingly  lovely  and  pure  maiden  ;  he 
had  learned  to  love  the  creation  of  his  fancy 
represented  by  Picciola.  In  Theresa,  he  re- 
cognised the  fair  girl  of  his  dreams.  He  had 
long  ago  sent  her  a  flower  of  Picciola — accident 
revealed  to  him  a  locket  hidden  in  her  dress, 
containing  on  one  side  the  gray  hair  of  her 
father,  on  the  other  the  faded  flower  !  Thus 
had  he  seen  her  in  his  dreams,  except  that  she 
then  wore  the  flower  in  her  hair ;  now  it  was  on 
her  heart. 

Why  need  we  continue  this  story  longer  ? 
Charney's  release  followed  soon  after  Grirhardi's, 
and  he  bore  away  from  the  fortress  with  him, 
Picciola  in. his  hand,  and  in  his  heart  true  love 
to  man,  and  faith  in  Grod,  which  she  had  brought 
him.  Theresa  became  his  wife,  and  Picciola 
was  cherished,  until  a  living  flower,  an  infant 
son,    enhanced    the    blessedness    of    Charney. 


%:z 


STANZAS.  87 

When  Ludovic,  honest,  good  Ludovic  came  to 
stand  as  godfather  to  the  young  heir,  he  saw 
Picciola  faded  and  forgotten  in  the  midst  of  so 
much  happiness.  But  it  was  well,  for  the 
mission  of  the  prison-flower  was  fulfilled. 


— vr%/\/\/»  »\/%^N^N/\/^— 


STANZAS. 


BY     MRS.     E.     F.     EL.  LET. 

How  can  you  bid  me  immure  myself,  pray. 
When  Nature  about  me  is  smiling  and  bright  ? 

When  all  out  of  doors  look  so  lovely  and  gay, 
And  the  sky  is  so  full  of  its  soul-cheering  light } 

How  can  you  bid  me  o'er  musty  tomes  pore, 

And  read  my  eyes  out,  while  my  head  aches  in 
keeping, 
When  the  woodlands  and  fields  teach  such  beautiful 
lore. 
And  my  heart  to  their  gladness  responsive  is  leap- 
ing? 

Like  the  "  sweet  bard  of  Avon,"  far  better  than  books 
I  love  to  peruse  those  rich  blossoming  pages  ; 


88  STANZAS. 


And  the  sermons  in  stones,  trees,  and  swift  running 
brooks. 
Are  more  dear  to  my  mind  than  the  wisdom  of 


I  was  born  for  rejoicing  !  a  "  summer  child"  truly  ; 

And  kindred  I  claim  with  each  wild  joyous  thing ; 
The  light  frolic  breeze,  or  the  streamlet  unruly. 

Or  a  cloud  at  its  play,  or  a  bird  on  the  wing  ! 


Could  you  chain  the  blithe  waves,  dancing  wild  in  their 
glee  ? 
Could  you  check  the  glad  mock-bird,  his  carol  re- 
peating ? 
Hold  the  laughing  leaves  still,  that  are  fluttering  so 
free. 
Or  the  sun-gleams  that  o'er  the  green  meadows  are 
fleeting  ? 

And  why  is  my  spi-rit  attuned  like  a  lute 

To  the  music  that  all  things  around  me  are  feeling, 

If  its  voice  in  that  concert  alone  must  be  mute — 
If  I  shut  out  the  doctrine  of  Nature's  revealing  ? 


%  ■~'d 


THREE    CHAPTERS   IN    THE,    ETC.  89 


THKEE  CHAPTERS  IN  THE  LIFE 
OF  A  LITTLE  GIRL. 

CHAPTER    I. 

It  was  the  month  of  March,  and  never  was 
there  known  in  that  rough,  blustering  month,  a 
more  rough  and  blustering  day  than  the  one  on 
which  our  story  opens.  During  the  whole  week 
clouds  had  been  gathering  in  the  sky,  a-nd  fierce 
winds  had  pushed  forth  from  the  north  and  east, 
and  driven  them  hither  and  thither.  Saturday 
was  a  very  gloomy  day, — the  storm  was  close  at 
hand,  and  on  Sunday  the  rain  came  down  in 
torrents,  keeping  from  the  house  of  Grod  all  who 
usually  went  up  thither  with  other  motives  than 
those  Grod  has  bidden  us  to  feel  when  we  enter 
his  earthly  courts.  Still  a  small  congregation 
of  devout  worshippers  had  assembled  for  after- 
noon service,  in  the  old  church  in  the  village  of 
Conway,  and  when  Mr.  Hobart  had  finished  the 
service  and  the  people  dispersed,  they  heeded 


90  THREE    CHAPTERS    IN    THE 

not  the  rain,  but  said  to  one  another,  "  It  has 
been  good  for  ns  that  we  went  up  thither." 

Samuel,  the  gray-haired  negro  of  Mr.  Hobart, 
who  performed  the  duties  of  church  sexton,  was 
just  closing  the  doors,  as  the  last  lingerer  de- 
parted, when  his  attention  was  arrested  by  a 
groan,  which  sounded  close  beside  him.  The 
old  man  started — 

''  Bress  me  !  what  dat .?"  said  he. 

No  answer  was  returned  but  another  groan,  and 
a  half  murmured  word  convinced  him  that  he  was 
not  deceived,  and  that  some  human  being  was 
near  him  and  in  distress.  He  hastened  around 
an  angle  whence  the  sound  seemed  to  come, 
when  a  sight  greeted  his  eyes  which  almost  de- 
prived him  of  his  senses.  Sitting  at  the  base 
of  a  pillar  which  supported  the  heavy  stone  work 
around  the  top  of  the  church,  her  head  thrown 
back  against  the  cold  marble  and  the  pitiless 
rain  beating  on  her  unprotected  face  and  bosom, 
was  a  woman,  delicate  and  young,  and  once  beau- 
tiful, but  now.  Oh  !  how  emaciated,  how  deplor- 
able her  aspect !  Her  long  black  hair  hung 
upon  her  shoulders,  heavy  with  the  rain,  a  thin 
shawl  was  torn  from  her  feeble  grasp  by  the 
wind,  and  upon  her  breast  lay  a  beautiful  infant 
— its  sweet  eyes  opened  in  wonder  at  the  rude 


LIFE    OF    A    LITTLE    GIRL.  91 

storm  raging  about  them,  and  its  dimpled  hands 
playing  with  the  ebon  tresses  of  the  woman. 

Samuel  did  not  long  stand  motionless  ;  he 
took  from  his  shoulders  an  old  cloak  which  had 
once  done  service  for  his  master,  and  proceeded 
to  wrap  it  about  both  mother  and  child,  while  he 
ejaculated  "  Bress  me,"  repeatedly,  and  in  a 
manner  which  showed  he  was  rather  invoking 
blessings  on  the  miserable  beings  before  him. 
He  asked  no  questions — he  saw  misery  and  suf- 
fering— and  his  kind  heart  only  suggested  com- 
fort and  relief.  He  was  a  strong  man  still,  and 
the  poor  woman  was  not  much  heavier  than  a 
baby  ;  his  strong  arms  encircled  mother  and 
child,  and  he  hastened  across  the  church-yard 
with  them,  and  entered  the  garden  of  Mr.  Ho- 
bart's  house.  The  minister  was  looking  from 
the  study  window,  when  he  saw  old  Samuel  with 
his  singular  burden. 

"  Martha,  Martha  !"  called  Mr.  Hobart,  and 
as  his  house-keeper  (for  he  was  a  man  bereft 
of  wife  and  child,)  made  her  appearance, 
"  Martha,"  said  he,  "  Samuel  has  found  in  the 
storm  some  object  of  pity,  who  needs  our  kindest 
care.  Let  her  be  brought  in  here  and  laid  upon 
my  couch,  and  do  you  remain  and  see  what  may 
be  needed." 


92  THREE    CHAPTERS    IN    THE 

Old  Samuel  deposited  the  poor  creature  on 
tlie  couch  by  the  blazing  fire,  and  proceeding  to 
divest  her  of  the  mantle,  revealed  the  smiling 
babe.  It  seemed  to  have  been  but  little  affected 
bj  the  misery  its  mother  had  endured ;  though 
a  little  tired,  its  limbs  were  still  rounded  and 
dimpled,  its  head  was  covered  with  waves  of 
soft  fair  hair,  its  blue  eyes  were  clear  and  bright, 
and  its  rosy  mouth  ever  ready  to  smile  and  coo. 
As  Martha  lifted  the  sweet  child  from  its  resting 
place,  she  involuntarily  pressed  her  lips  to  its 
cheek,  and  Mr.  Hobart  gazed  at  it  with  eyes 
dewy  with  emotion.  The  mother  saw  the  ca- 
resses, and  noted  the  gentleman's  manner. 

"  Thank  Grod,"  she  murmured,  "  my  Lillie 
is  safe  ;  has  a  home  where  she  will  be  loved. 
Oh  !  Father  of  Mercies,  I  bless  thee  for  this 
consolation  in  my  dying  hour,"  and  overcome 
by  her  feelings,  she  fainted  in  the  arms  of  the 
minister,  who  was  hastening  to  support  her. 
When  they  had  recovered  her  from  her  swoon, 
Martha  prepared  for  her  a  comfortable  bed  in  a 
room  close  at  hand,  to  which  they  removed  her 
and  there  administered  some  refreshment.  Most 
tenderly  did  Martha  nurse  her  and  the  little 
Lillie  ;  the  child  throve  upon  it,  but  the  mother 
grew  weaker,  as  day  by  day  passed  on,  and  she 


LIFE    OF    A    LITTLE    GIRL.  93 

received  the  kindest  attentions  from  all  at  the  par- 
sonage. There  was  no  hope  of  life  for  her,  and 
she  knew  it.  The  approach  of  death  did  not 
trouble  her,  only  as  she  thought  of  her  child ; 
and  if  she  must  leave  it,  more  tender  fi*iends 
could  not  be  found  for  it.  Before  she  died,  she 
had  a  long  interview  with  Mr.  Hobart ;  what  she 
told  him  of  herself  and  Lillie,  shall  be  made 
known  in  another  chapter. 


CHAPTER   II. 

Several  years  passed  on.  Lillie  Moore,  such 
was  the  infant's  name,  had  grown  to  be  a  lovely 
and  intelligent  girl ;  she  was  perhaps  ten  years 
old  when  I  shall  again  introduce  her  to  you. 
Mr.  Hobart  still  preached  to  the  Conway  Church, 
and  Martha  Dale  was  still  his  housekeeper.  She 
was  a  distant  relation  of  the  minister,  and  when 
death  had  taken  away  his  two  children,  and  sick- 
ness had  prostrated  his  wife  upon  a  couch  from 
which  she  should  never  rise,  he  had  sent  for  his 
cousin  and  given  her  charge  of  his  house.  She 
nursed  Mrs.  Hobart  with  a  sister's  tenderness, 
but  the  victim  of  consumption  soon  found  rest  in 
her  grave,  and  Mr.  Hobart  was  left  alone  but  for 


%= 


94  THREE    CHAPTERS    IN    THE 

Martha  ;  when  Providence  gave  him  the  little 
Lillie  to  protect  and  train  as  she  grew  older. 
Martha  Dale  conscientiously  and  judiciously 
fulfilled  to  the  orphan  the  duties  of  a  mother, 
and  the  little  girl  grew  in  beauty  and  goodness 
and  knowledge. 

One  warm  summer  day  Martha  put  aside  her 
work,  and  calling  Lillie,  who  had  just  finished 
her  lessons  in  the  library,  said  to  her  she  would 
like  to  listen  while  the  child  should  read  to  her 
from  the  Bible.  Lillie  readily  obeyed,  for  it 
made  her  happy  to  be  able  to  do  anything  for 
one  she  loved  as  she  did  her  good  nurse.  As 
Lillie  proceeded  in  her  reading,  she  came  to  the 
passage  in  which  children  are  bidden  to  obey  and 
honor  their  parents.  She  looked  up  from  her 
book  and  said  to  Martha  : 

"  And  if  they  have  no  father  and  mother. 
Aunt  Martha,  I  suppose  they  must  pay  their 
duty  as  children  to  those  who  do  for  them  what 
parents  would  do  ;  you  and  Uncle  Hobart  are 
like  parents  to  me." 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Martha,  "  and  your  Uncle 
Hobart  is  indeed  almost  as  near  to  you  as  a 
parent ;   I  know  he  loves  you  as  well." 

"  Why  did  he  say  the  other  day,  that  he 
wished  my  name  was  Helen  .?" 


LIFE    OF    A    LITTLE    GIRL.  95 

"  Because  that  was  the  name  of  his  wife 
whom  he  loved  very  dearly,  and  you,  my  dear 
child,  are  the  daughter  of  that  lady's  brother." 

Lillie  looked  up  in  wonder,  and  Martha  con- 
tinued :  "  Before  your  dear  mother  died  she 
told  us  who  she  was,  and  now  that  you  were  in 
the  very  home  she  was  seeking  for  you.  Henry 
Moore,  your  father,  was  a  sea  captain,  and  when 
he  left  his  wife  for  the  first  time  after  his  mar- 
riage, a  sad  presentiment  of  evil  seemed  to  hang 
over  him.  He  told  her  he  had  a  sister  in  the 
upper  part  of  the  State,  married  to  a  clergyman, 
and  begged  her  if  anything  should  happen  to  him 
or  to  herself,  that  she  should  need  a  friend,  to 
promise  him  to  go  to  Helen  Hobart.  He  had 
offended  his  sister  soon  after  her  marriage,  and 
had  not  heard  from  her  for  several  years,  '  but 
she  loves  me  still,  I  know,'  he  said,  '  and  my 
wife  will  find  her  all  a  sister  should  be.' 

"  His  fears  were  verified.  Months  passed  on 
after  Captain  Moore  sailed,  and  only  once  was 
he  heard  from ;  then  a  year  went  by  ;  and  no 
tidings  came,  and  it  was  supposed  the  ship  had 
been  wrecked  at  sea,  and  all  on  board  of  her  had 
perished.  The  poor  young  wife  had  given  birth 
to  you,  my  little  Lillie,  a  few  months  after  your 
father  sailed.  When  nothing  was  heard  from  him. 


% 

96  THREE    CHAPTERS    IN    THE 

and  his  sad  fate  seemed  confirmed,  she  thought 
she  could  die  ;  she  had  no  wish  to  live  now,  but 
her  child  must  be  saved.  So  she  travelled  till 
her  money  was  spent,  by  the  public  conveyances, 
and  then  leaving  her  scanty  stock  of  clothes  at 
the  last  stopping-place,  she  took  you  in  her 
arms  and  tried  to  walk  from  Elton  to  Conway. 
Old  Samuel  told  you  the  other  day  how  he  found 
you,  and  you  know  your  mother  died  here,  sur- 
rounded by  comforts  and  rendered  happy  in  her 
last  hours,  by  the  knowledge  that  you  were  so 
well  provided  for. 

'^  And  now,  Lillie,  shut  up  the  book,  I  must 
go  and  give  Kitty  directions  about  the  supper. 
Wipe  away  your  tears,  my  darling,  and  run  and 
play  in  the  garden  where  I  see  your  uncle  is 
walking." 

Lillie  obeyed  the  kind  old  lady,  but  her  heart 
was  full,  so  she  walked  by  the  side  of  Mr.  Ho- 
bart,  and  questioning  him  more  concerning  her 
parents,  ended  by  expressing  her  belief  that 
her  papa  was  not  really  dead,  that  he  had  been 
saved  when  his  vessel  was  lost,  and  that  some 
day  she  should  see  him. 

How  far  her  conjectures  ^^ere  right  I  will  tell 
you  in  the  next  chapter,  which  will  interest  you 
much  more  than  these,  I  hope. 


LIFE    OF    A    LITTLE    GIRL.  97 


CHAPTER    III. 

Gently  the  years  passed  on,  and  Lillie  Moore 
was  fourteen.  She  was  as  sweet  and  gentle  a 
little  maiden  as  your  fancy  could  depict.  I 
knew  Lillie  well,  and  never  was  the  most  ill- 
natured  person  able  to  say  anything  ill  of  her. 
She  was  to  her  kind  protectors  all  that  the  ten- 
derest  daughter  could  have  been,  and  as  for 
them,  their  "  hearts  were  bound  up"  in  the 
child  :  she  was  the  light  of  their  eyes  and  the 
joy  of  their  souls,  and  the  blessedness  of  life 
itself  to  them.  I  was  often  at  the  parsonage  in 
those  days,  and  one  evening  which  I  spent  there, 
I  shall  remember  as  long  as  memory  is  left  me. 

It  was  Christmas  night.  The  day  had  been 
as  beautiful  as  the  sun  could  make,  in  a  world 
divested  of  green  leaves,  of  its  birds  and  flowers. 
That  morning  Mr.  Hobart  had  held  divine  service 
in  his  church,  in  commemoration  of  Christ's  na- 
tivity, and  after  church  a  few  choice  friends  had 
accompanied  him  home  and  partaken  of  his 
Christmas  dinner.  In  the  evening  Lillie  was 
to  have  some  of  her  friends  to  visit  hef,  and 
witness  a  scene  peculiar  to  the  pastor's  house. 


=% 

98  THREE    CHAPTERS    IN    THE 

Since  her  infancy,  Mr.  Hobart  and  Martha  had 
spared  no  pains  to  make  this  child  happy ;  but 
Christmas  was  the  happy  day  of  the  year  to 
Lillie,  and  now  they  usually  celebrated  it  by  a 
Christmas  Tree,  as  it  is  called. 

Soon  after  dark  the  young  people  came  drop- 
ping in,  until  some  twelve  or  fifteen  young  girls 
were  assembled  in  the  little  drawing-room.  Then 
Mr.  Hobart  lighted  the  wax  tapers,  which  were 
almost  innumerable,  on  the  branches  of  the  tree, 
and  when  it  was  fairly  illuminated,  his  guests 
were  summoned  to  admire  it.  Desiring  to  look 
upon  it  as  upon  a  picture,  I  stepped  out  upon  the 
piazza  which  surrounded  that  portion  of  the 
house,  and  Oh  !  I  wish  I  had  the  pencil  of  an  ar- 
tist to  paint  for  you  the  scene  which  I  looked  on. 

In  the  centre  of  the  room  was  the  Christmas 
Tree,  reaching  nearly  to  the  ceiling  ;  it  was  a 
beautiful  cedar,  as  symmetrical  as  possible  ; 
upon  every  bough  were  hung  the  gifts  which 
Lillie  had  received  from  her  friends  on  that 
day  ; — also  those  she  intended  presenting  to  her 
young  friends  invited  there.  There  were  neck- 
laces of  coral,  silver  birds,  and  silver  arrows, 
baskets  of  bonbons  and  cornucopias  already 
emptying  their  stores  of  plenty  on  the  carpet. 
Bunches  of  delicious  grapes,  rosy  apples,  and 
% 


LIFE    OF    A    LITTLE    GIRL.  99 

luscious  looking  oranges  seemed  growing  from 
the  branches ;  and  every  tiny  bough  bore  its 
lighted  taper,  making  such  a  blaze  of  brightness 
about  the  whole,  as  quite  dazzled  the  beholder. 
Underneath  the  tree,  resting  against  its  trunk, 
were  the  weightier  gifts,  which  the  branches 
could  not  sustain.  There  were  costly  books, 
fine  pictures,  and  two  large  dolls  which  I  found 
were  intended  as  gifts  to  two  little  pets.  Fan 
Austin  and  Fid  Williams,  to  whom  dolls  were 
still  the  choice  companions.  Mr.  Hobart  stood 
near  the  tree^,  taking  from  its  bounteous  stores 
the  gifts,  which  Lillie  was  distributing  to  the  de- 
lighted children. 

How  lovely  Lillie  looked,  as  she  thus  enacted 
Lady  Bountiful,  and  with  what  fondness  her 
uncle  regarded  her.  There  were  some  in  the 
room  as  old  as  she  was,  but  none  who  possessed 
her  graceful  self-possession,  her  gentle,  yet  dig- 
nified carriage,  her  winning  smile  and  voice  of 
melody.  By  and  by  Mr.  Hobart  asked  for  some 
music  ;  then  I  saw  the  little  ones.  Fan  Austin 
and  Fid  Williams,  begin  to  caper  about ;  Fid 
was  still  with  her  nurse,  for  she  was  not  more 
than  two  or  three  years  old,  and  the  little  crea- 
ture jumped  about — dancing,  as  she  considered 
it — certainly  keeping  time,  though  with  most 


100  THREE    CHAPTERS    IN    THE 

ludicrous  motions,  to  the  piano.  Fan,  also, 
danced  and  whirled  around,  to  the  great  amuse- 
ment of  the  older  girls.  In  the  midst  of  this 
merriment,  while  the  sounds  of  mirth  within  pre- 
vented my  hearing  anything  out  of  doors,  I  be- 
came conscious  of  some  one  standing  near  me. 
It  was  none  of  the  Rector's  other  guests,  for 
they,  with  himself  and  aunt  Martha,  were  in  the 
drawing  room.  As  I  turned  around,  I  saw  in 
the  full  light  that  fell  upon  him  from  the  win- 
dow, that  it  was, a  gentleman  and  a  stranger  who 
thus  intruded.  Surprised  at  the  intrusion,  and 
at  the  emotion  he  manifested,  I  did  not  for  a 
moment  know  what  to  say. 

While  I  thus  hesitated,  he  seemed  to  arouse 
himself  from  the  thoughts  which  had  called  forth 
the  sigh  that  had  first  attracted  my  attention, 
and  he  apologetically  addressed  me  thus  : — 

"  Be  not  severe,  madam,  in  your  judgment 
of  a  stranger.  You  will  soon  know  who  I  am, 
and  will  not  censure  me  for  having,  as  you  doubt- 
less consider  it,  intruded  on  these  festivities. 
Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  let  Mr.  Hobart 
know  that  a  gentleman  wishes  to  see  him  .^" 

I  entered  the  house  and  informed  the  minister 
that  a  stranger  desired  his  presence  in  the  library. 
When  he  had  gone  to  him,  I  remained  among 


%=: 


LIFE    OF    A    LITTLE    GIRL.,  -  101" 

the  guests  in  the  drawing  room,  but  I  saw  no 
longer  the  beautiful  Christmas  Tree  and  the 
merry  children.  I  was  thinking  of  the  stranger, 
from  whom  I  had  just  parted— the  singular  and 
apparently  stealthy  approach  to  the  house — his 
peculiar  manner,  and  his  intimation  that  I  should 
know  more  of  him.  At  that  moment  my  eye 
rested  on  Lillie  ;  I  started  as  I  saw  in  her  coun- 
tenance a  most  striking  resemblance  to  the 
stranger.  There  was  the  same  Grecian  profile, 
the  short  upper  lip,  so  very  beautiful  when  in 
combination  with  the  classic  outline  to  which  it 
belongs,  the  large  mild  blue  eyes,  the  very  tones 
of  voice  were  hauntingly  similar.  I  remem- 
bered, then,  all  I  had  known  of  LUlie's  early 
life,  and  of  her  introduction  into  the  Rector's 
family,  and  I  decided  in  my  own  mind  that  a 
relative,  at  least,  of  the  orphan,  was  near  her. 

While  thus  meditating,  she  was  summoned 
from  the  apartment.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
minister  entered  alone,  with  a  voice  which  elec- 
trified the  little  company,  with  the  news  it  con- 
veyed ;  he  told  them  that  his  brother-in-law, 
Captain  Moore,  the  father  of  his  little  Lillie, 
had  just  arrived,  and  the  dear  girl  had  received 
in  her  father,  a  Christmas  gift,  which  the  magical 
tree  could  not  think  of  equalling. 


102    ,   thaes  chapters  in  the,  etc. 

All !  that  was  a  very  happy  evening  at  the 
rectory.  Captain  Moore  and  his  daughter  joined 
the  company  soon,  and  the  little  people  listened 
with  wonder  to  his  narrative  of  the  dangers  and 
imminent  perils  from  which  he  had  escaped  ; 
from  the  wrath  of  the  sea  on  the  night  his  ship 
was  lost,  from  the  famine  which  threatened  the 
few  who  had  saved  their  lives  in  the  long  boat, 
from  the  perils  of  pirates  and  savages,  and  all 
other  dangers  from  which  the  mercy  of  God  had 
protected  him  during  the  last  fourteen  years. 

He  had  returned  to  find  his  sister  dead,  his 
wife  dead  :  he  also  feared  the  child  whom  he 
had  never  seen  had  also  died,  and  that  no  being 
who  might  claim  relationship  with  him  was  left 
to  welcome  him  home  after  such  a  life  of  disaster 
and  suffering.  He  had  ascertained  on  reaching 
that  village,  where  he  knew  his  sister's  husband 
still  lived,  that  the  minister  had  a  little  girl  liv- 
ing with  him  whom  he  called  his  niece,  and  who 
bore  the  name  of  "  Lillie  Moore."  He  saw  the 
child,  and  parental  instinct  told  him  she  was  his 
own.  "  God  be  thanked  for  such  a  treasure," 
said  he,  as  she  nestled  her  dear  head  on  his 
breast. 

Pear  little  reader,  this  is  not  all  a  fiction. 


^% 


BE    KIND    TO    YOUR    SISTER.  103 


BE  KIND  TO  YOUR  SISTER. 

One  morning,  there  was  a  little  girl  sitting  on 
the  door-step  of  a  pleasant  cottage  near  the 
common.  She  was  thin  and  pale.  Her  head 
was  resting  upon  her  slender  hand.  There  was 
a  touching  sadness  in  her  sweet  face,  which  the 
dull,  heavy  expression  about  her  jet  black  eyes, 
did  not  destroy.  What  was  she  thinking  of, — 
sitting  thus  alone  ^  Perhaps  of  that  pretty  flower- 
garden,  which  she  had  cultivated  with  so  much 
taste  and  care  ?  Those  blue  morning-glories, 
and  bright  yellow  nasturtians,  which  she  had 
taught  to  climb  to  her  window  ? — or  those  four- 
o'clocks,  which  she  had  planted  in  so  straight  a 
line,  under  the  little  fence  which  encircled  the 
flower  bed }  She  might  have  been  thinking  of 
these, — perhaps  wondering  whether  she  should 
see  these  flowers,  which  she  had  been  cultivating 
with  so  much  care,  open  their  pretty  leaves  to 
another  summer's  sun. 

Her  name  was  Helen.  For  several  weeks  she 
had  seemed  to  be  drooping,  without  any  partic- 


=% 


104  BE    KIND    TO    YOUR    SISTER. 

ular  disease  ;  inconstant  in  her  attendance  at 
school,  and  losing  gradually  her  interest  in  all 
her  former  employments.  Helen  had  one  sister, 
Clara,  a  little  older  than  herself,  and  several 
brothers.  While  she  was  most  indisposed  they 
had  expressed  a  great  deal  of  sympathy,  and 
tried  to  amuse  her,  and  had  willingly  given  up 
their  own  enjoyments,  to  promote  hers.  But 
children  will  too  often  be  selfish ;  and  when 
Helen,  for  some  days,  appeared  better  and  able 
to  run  about  and  amuse  herself,  they  would  for- 
get how  peculiarly  sensitive  she  had  become,  and 
the  cross  words  which  they  occasionally  spoke, 
and  the  neglect  with  which  they  sometimes 
treated  her,  wounded  her  feelings,  and  caused 
her  to  shed  many  bitter  tears,  as  she  lay  awake 
on  her  little  cot  at  night. 

This  day  she  seemed  better,  and  it  was  some- 
thing her  sister  had  said  to  her  just  before,  which 
gave  that  expression  of  sadness  to  her  face,  as 
she  sat  at  the  door  of  the  cottage.  Clara  soon 
came  to  her  again. 

"  Helen,  mother  says  you  must  go  to  school 
to-day ;  so  get  up,  come  along  and  get  ready, 
and  not  be  moping  there  any  longer." 

"  Did  Ma  say  so  .^"  asked  Helen. 

"  Yes,  she  did,"  answered  Clara ;  you  are 


BE    KIND    TO    YOUR    SISTER.  105 

well  enougli  I  know,  for  you  always  say  you  are 
sick,  at  school-time.  Get  your  bonnet,  for  I 
shan't  wait." 

Helen  got  up  slowly,  and  wiping  with  her 
apron  the  tear  which  had  started  in  her  eye, 
she  made  her  preparations  to  obey  her  mother's 
command.  Now  Clara  had  a  very  irritable  dis- 
position. She  could  not  bear  to  have  Helen 
receive  any  more  attention  or  sympathy  than 
herself ;  and  unless  she  were  really  so  sick  as 
to  excite  her  fears ^  she  never  would  allow  her  to 
be  sick  at  all.  She  was  determined  not  to  go 
to  school  alone  this.morning,  and  had  persuaded 
her  mother  to  make  her  sister  go  with  her. 

In  a  few  moments,  they  were  both  ready : 
but  now  a  difficulty  presented  itself.  The  dis- 
tance to  school  was  so  great,  that  they  seldom 
returned  at  noon.  Their  dinner  had  been  packed 
for  them,  in  a  large  basket  which  stood  in  the 
entry.  Upon  whom,  now,  should  the  task  of 
carrying  this  devolve  ? 

"  Helen,"  said  Ckra,  ^'  I've  carried  the  basket 
every  day  for  a  week  ;  it's  your  turn  now." 

"  But  it  is  twice  as  heavy  now,"  said  the  little 
girl,  "  I  can  but  just  lift  it." 

*'  Well,  I  dont  care,"  cried  her  sister,  "  I 
have  got  my  geography  and  atlas  to  carry  ;  so 


106  BE    KIND    TO    YOUR    SISTER. 

take  it  up,  and  come  along,  Miss  Fudge.     I 
shan't  touch  it." 

Helen  took  up  the  basket,  without  saying 
another  word,  though  it  required  all  her  little 
strength,  and  walked  slowly  behind  her  sister. 
She  tried  hard  to  keep  from  crying,  but  the 
tears  would  come,  as  fast  as  she  wiped  them  off. 
They  walked  on  thus  in  silence  for  about  a 
quarter  of  an  hour.  Clara  felt  too  much  ill- 
humor  to  take  the  least  notice  of  her  sister. 
She  knew  she  had  done  wrong,  and  felt  uneasy, 
but  was  yet  too  proud  to  give  up,  and  was  de- 
termined to  hold  out ;  excusing  herself  by  think- 
ing,— "  Well,  Helen  is  always  saying  she  is  sick,  ' 
and  making  a  great  fuss.  It's  just  good  enough 
for  her."  When  she  had  reached  the  half-way 
stone,  she  had  half  a  mind  not  to  let  her  rest 
there,  as  usual ;  but  the  habit  was  too  strong 
to  be  easily  broken,  and  she  sat  down  sullenly 
to  wait  for  Helen  to  come  up. 

This  was  a  spot  which  few  could  have  passed 
unnoticed.  The  broad  flat  stone  was  shaded  by 
a  beautiful  weeping  willow,  whose  branches  hung 
so  low,  that  even  little  Maria  could  reach  them 
by  standing  on  tiptoe  ; — and  around  the  trunk 
of  this  tree  ran  a  little  brook,  which  came  up 
just  to  this  rustic  seat,  and  then  turned  off  into 


BE    KIND    TO    YOUR    SISTER.  107 

the  next  meadow.  It  would  seem  as  if  the 
beauty  of  this  place  must  have  charmed  away 
the  evil  spirit  which  was  raging  in  Clara's 
breast ; — but  no  !  The  cool  shade  brought  no 
refreshment  to  those  evil  passions,  and  the  little 
ripples  which  sparkled  in  the  sunbeam  did  not 
for  one  moment  divert  her  attention  from  her 
own  cross  feelings.  As  I  said  before,  she  sat 
sullenly,  till  Helen  came  up,  and  then  began  to 
scold  her  for  being  so  slow. 

"  Why  don't  you  come  along  faster,  Helen  ; 
you  will  be  late  at  school,  and  I  don't  care  if 
you  are  :  you  deserve  a  good  scolding  for  act- 
ing so." 

"  Why  Clara,  I  am  very  tired ^  my  head  does 
ache,  and  this  basket  is  very  heavy.  I  do  think 
you  ought  to  carry  it  the  rest  of  the  way." 

"  Do  give  it  to  me  then,"  said  Clara,  and 
snatched  it  from  her  with  such  violence  that  the 
cover  came  off.  The  apples  rolled  out  and  fell 
into  the  water,  the  gingerbread  followed,  and 
the  pie  rolled  into  the  du't.  It  has  been  truly 
said,  "  Anger  is  a  short  madness  ;"  for  how 
little  reason  have  those  who  indulge  in  it. 
Helen  was  not  to  blame  for  the  accident,  but 
Clara  did  not  stop  to  think  of  this.  Yexed  at 
having  thus  lost  her  dinner,  she  turned  and  gave 
% —  ^ 


108  BE    KIND    TO    YOUR    SISTER. 

her  little  sister  a  push,  and  then  walked  on  as 
rapidly  as  possible,  0  '  could  she  have  foreseen 
the  consequences  of  this  rash  act — could  she 
have  known  the  bitter  anguish  which  it  would 
afterwards  cause  her,  worlds  would  not  have 
tempted  her  to  do  it ;  lv,t  Clara  was  angry. 
Helen  was  seated  just  on  the  edge  of  the  stone, 
and  she  fell  into  the  water.  It  was  not  deep. 
She  had  waded  there  many  a  day  with  her  shoes 
and  stockings  off,  and  she  easily  got  out  again, 
but  it  frightened  her  very  much  and  took  away 
all  her  strength.  She  could  not  even  call  to  her 
sister,  or  cry.  A  strange  feeling  came  over  her, 
such  as  she  had  never  had  before.  She  laid  her 
head  on  the  stone,  closed  her  eyes,  and  thought 
she  was  going  to  die,  and  she  wished  her  mother 
was  there.  Then  she  seemed  to  sleep  for  a  few 
moments  ; — ^but  by  and  by  she  felt  better,  and, 
getting  up,  she  took  her  empty  basket  and  walked 
on,  as  fast  as  she  was  able,  towards  school. 

It  was  nearly  half  done  when  she  arrived 
there,  and  as  she  entered  the  room,  all  noticed 
her  pale  face  and  wet  dress.  She  took  her  seat, 
and  placing  her  book  before  her,  leaned  her  ach- 
ing head  upon  her  hand,  and  attempted  to  study, 
but  in  vain.  She  could  not  fix  her  attention  at 
all.  The  strange  feeling  began  to  come  over 
% 


BE    KIND    TO    YOUR    SISTER.  109 

her  once  more  ;  the  letters  all  mingled  together, 
—the  room  grew  dark, — the  shrill  voice  of  the 
little  child  screaming  its  A  B  C  in  front  of  her 
desk,  grew  fainter  and  fainter  ;  her  head  sunk 
upon  her  book,  and  she  fell  to  the  floor. 

Fainting  was  so  unusual  in  this  school,  that  all 
was  instantly  confusion,  and  it  was  some  minutes 
before  the  teacher  could  restore  order.  Helen 
was  brought  to  the  air,  two  of  her  companions 
were  despatched  for  water,  and  none  were  allowed  . 
to  remain  near  excepting  Clara,  who  stood  by, 
trembling  from  head  to  foot,  and  almost  as  white 
as  the  insensible  object  before  her.  0 !  what 
a  moment  of  anguish  was  this, — deep,  bitter 
anguish.  Her  anger  melted  away  at  once,  and 
she  would  almost  have  sacrificed  her  own  life, 
to  have  recalled  the  events  of  the  morning. 
That  was  impossible.  The  future,  however, 
was  still  before  her,  and  she  determined  never 
again  to  indulge  her  temper,  or  be  unkind  to 
any  one.  If  Helen  only  recovered,  the  future 
should  be  spent  in  atoning  for  her  past  unkind- 
ness.  It  seemed  for  a  short  time  indeed,  as  if 
she  would  be  called  upon  to  fulfil  these  promises. 
Helen  gradually  grew  better,  and  in  about  an 
hour  was  apparently  as  well  as  usual.  It  was 
judged  best,  however,  for  her  to  return  home, 


r^ 


110  BE    KIND    TO    YOUR    SISTER. 

and  a  farmer,  who  happened  to  pass  in  a  new 
gig,  very  kindly  offered  to  take  her.  Clara 
could  not  play  with  the  girls  as  usual, — she 
could  not  study.  Her  heart  was  full,  and  she 
was  very  impatient  to  be  once  more  by  her 
sister's  side.  The  recesses  were  spent  in  col- 
lecting pictures,  notes,  and  little  books  ;  — and 
the  long  study  hours  were  employed  in  printing 
stories.  In  this  way,  she  attempted  to  quiet 
that  still  small  voice,  whose  secret  whispers 
were  destroying  all  her  happiness.  0  how 
eagerly  she  watched  the  sun  in  his  slow  pro- 
gress round  the  school-house  ;  and  when  at  last 
he  threw  his  slanting  beams  through  the  west 
window,  she  was  the  first  to  obey  the  joyful 
signal ;  and  books,  papers,  pen  and  ink  instantly 
disappeared  from  her  desk. 

Clara  did  not  linger  on  her  way  home.  She 
even  passed  the  "  half  way  stone"  with  no  other 
notice  than  a  deep  sigh.  She  hurried  to  her 
sister's  bed-side,  impatient  to  show  her  the 
curiosities  she  had  collected,  and  to  make  up, 
by  every  little  attention,  for  her  unkindness. 
Helen  was  asleep.  Her  face  was  no  longer 
pale,  but  flushed  with  a  burning  fever.  Her 
little  hands  were  hot,  and  as  she  tossed  rest- 
lessly about  on  her  pillow,  she  would  mutter  to 


^^ 


BE    KIND    TO    YOUR    SISTER.  Ill 


herself, — sometimes  calling  on  her  sister,  to 
"  stop,  stop,"  and  then  again  begging  her  not  to 
throw  her  to  the  fishes. 

Clara  watched  long,  in  agony,  for  her  to  wake. 
This  she  did  at  last ;  but  it  brought  no  relief  to 
the  distressed  sister  and  friends.  She  did  not 
know  them,  and  continued  to  talk  incoherently 
about  the  events  of  the  morning.  It  was  too 
much  for  Clara  to  bear.  She  retired  to  her 
own  little  room,  and  lonely  bed,  and  wept  till 
she  could  weep  no  more. 

By  the  first  dawn  of  light,  she  was  at  her 
sister's  bed-side  ;  but  there  was  no  alteration. 
For  three  days,  Helen  continued  in  this  state. 
I  would  not,  if  I  could,  describe  the  agony  of 
Clara,  as  she  heard  herself  thus  called  upon, 
and  deservedly  reproached  by  the  dear  sufferer. 
Her  punishment  was,  indeed,  greater  than  she 
could  bear.  At  the  close  of  the  third  day, 
Helen  gave  signs  of  returning  consciousness, — 
inquired  if  the  cold  water  which  she  drank 
would  injure  her, — recognised  her  mother,  and 
very  anxiously  called  for  Clara.  She  had  just 
stepped  out,  and  was  immediately  told  of  this. 
0  how  joyful  was  the  summons  !  She  hastened 
to  her  sister,  who,  as  she  approached,  looked  up 
and  smiled.     The  feverish  flush  from  her  cheek 


112  BE    KIND    TO    YOUR    SISTER. 

was  gone, — she  was  almost  deadly  pale.  By 
her  own  request  her  head  had  been  raised  upon 
two  or  three  pillows,  and  her  little  emaciated 
hands  were  folded  over  the  white  coverlid. 
Clara  was  entirely  overcome,  she  could  only 
weep  ;  and  as  she  stooped  to  kiss  her  sister's 
white  lips,  the  child  threw  her  arms  around  her 
neck,  and  drew  her  still  nearer.  It  was  a  long 
embrace  ; — then  her  arms  moved  convulsively, 
and  fell  motionless  by  her  side  ; — there  were  a 
few  struggles, — she  gasped  once  or  twice, — and 
little  Helen  never  breathed  again. 

Days  and  weeks,  and  months  rolled  on.  Time 
had  somewhat  healed  the  wound  which  grief  for 
the  loss  of  an  only  sister  had  made  ;  but  it  had 
not  power  to  remove  from  Clara's  heart  the 
remembrance  of  her  former  unkindness.  It 
poisoned  many  an  hour.  She  never  took  her 
little  basket  of  dinner,  now  so  light,  or  in  her 
solitary  walk  to  school  passed  the  "  half  way 
stone,"  without  a  deep  sigh,  and  often  a  tear  of 
bitter  regret. 

Children  who  art  what  Clara  was^  go  now  and 
be  what  Clara  w, — mild, — amiable, — obliging 
and  pleasant  to  all. 


THE    child's    coffin.  113 


THE    CHILD'S    COFFIN. 

BY     CAROLINE     HOWARD. 

I  SAW  a  coffin  borne  along  the  street. 

With  footsteps  slow ; 
I  saw  the  mourners,  with  their  heavy  feet. 

Bow  weeping  low. 

They  told  me  that  a  little  one  slept  there 

Alone  and  cold, 
And  that  the  damp  clods  of  the  earth  would  soon 

Her  form  enfold. 

I  joined  the  few  who  followed  to  the  grave. 

Subdued  and  stilled, 
And  thoughts  of  what  she  would  be,  and  had  been. 

My  bosom  filled. 

They  told  me  that  in  sickness,  when  the  pains 

Robbed  her  of  rest. 
She  meekly  folded  her  white,  trembling  hands 

Upon  her  breast ;  • 

And  looking  up  to  Heaven  resigned  and  meek. 

With  earnest  eyes. 
Asked  God  with  broken  tones  to  call  her  up 

Into  the  skies. 


114  THE    child's    coffin. 

Into  the  skies  where  friends  to  friends  would  go 

And  fondly  meet, 
And  learn  the  miseries  of  life  and  death 

At  Jesus'  feet. 

I  saw  the  coffin  lowered  in  the  ground 

'Neath  the  cold  sod, 
And  turned  and  left  her  calmly  sleeping  there, 

Alone  with  God. 

At  night  I  dreamed  a  dream  of  beauty  rare, 

About  the  child ; 
I  saw  her  in  the  star-paved  courts  above, 

Still  sweet  and  mild. 

But  round  her  head  a  radiant  brightness  shone, 

And  in  her  eyes 
A  light  seraphic  beamed,  that  took  its  hues 

From  Paradise. 

As  she  had  said,  at  Jesus'  feet  she  sat. 

And  garlands  wove ; 
Each  blossom  seemed  a  gift  of  heavenly  worth, 

A  word  of  love. 

And  sister  angels  came  there  to  be  blessed. 

And  as  she  smiled, 
Our  Saviour  smiled,  and  with  his  sacred  hands 

Crowned  the  bright  child. 

And  then  a  strain  arose  of  love  and  praise. 

And  children  sang ; 
And  the  wide  heavens,  with  Jesus  in  the  midst, 

With  music  rang. 


THE    MIRACLE.  115 


=% 


And  often  when  my  soul  is  faint  and  dark 

With  this  earth's  fears, 
The  coffin's  gloom,  and  pain,  and  doubt,  and  dread, 
•   And  bitter  tears — 

I  think  I  see  the  child,  once  lowly  laid. 

Soar  and  arise, 
And  smiling,  sit  at  Jesus'  holy  feet 

In  seraph  guise. 

There  doubt  is  o'er,  for  memories  sweet  descend 

From  Heaven  above. 
Where  that  child- angel  weaves  her  garlands  bright 

Of  Heaven-born  love. 


THE    MIRACLE. 

FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF   KRUMMACHER. 

One  day,  in  Spring,  the  youthful  Solomon  sat 
under  a  palm,  in  the  garden  of  the  King,  his 
father,  looking  on  the  earth,  in  deep  thought. 
Nathan,  his  teacher,  came  to  him,  and  said, 
"  Upon  what  dost  thou  ponder  so  earnestly,  be- 
neath the  palm  tree  ?" 

The  youth  raised  his  head,  and  answered, 
"  Nathan,  I  would  fain  see  a  miracle." 


=i« 


=9S 


116  THE    MIRACLE. 


The  Prophet  smiled  ;  "  I  also,  in  my  early 
years,  indulged  such  a  wish." 

*^  And  was  it  ever  fulfilled  ?"  asked  the  prince, 
eagerly.' 

''  A  man  of  God,''  pursued  Nathan,  "  came 
to  me,  bringing  in  his  hand  a  pomegranate  seed. 
'  Lo  !'  said  he,  '  what  this  stone  shall  become  !' 
He  made,  with  his  finger,  a  hole  in  the  earth, 
wherein  he  laid  the  seed,  and  covered  it.  As 
he  withdrew  his  hand,  the  turf  heaved,  and  I 
saw  two  leaves  come  forth,  which  I  had  hardly 
noticed,  when  I  saw  them  entwine  with  each 
other,  and  fortn  a  stem,  enveloped  in  bark  ;  and 
the  stem  became  visibly  higher  and  thicker. 

"  Then  spake  to  me  the  man  of  Grod  :  *  Grive 
heed !'  and  while  I  looked,  behold  !  boughs  spread 
themselves  on  the  stem,  even  as  branches  on  the 
candlesticks  of  the  altar. 

"  I  was  astonished ;  but  the  man  of  Grod 
commanded  me  to  be  silent  and  observe. 
'  See,'  said  he,  '  soon  shall  a  new  creation 
begin.' 

"  Then  took  he  water  in  his  hand  from  the 
brook  which  flowed  near  us,  and  sprinkled  it 
three  times  over  the  branches,  and  lo  !  they 
were  covered  at  once  with  green  leaves,  and 
spread  over  us  a  cool  shade,  mingled  with  re- 
% ■ 


THE    MIRACLE.  117 


freshing  fragrance.  .  '  Whence,'  cried  I,  ^  this 
odor,  with  the  delicious  shade  P 

*'  '  See'st  thou  not  ?'  said  the  holy  man, 
*  those  purple-colored  flowers,  which  sprout 
forth  from  the  green  leaves,  and  hang  down  in 
clusters  ?' 

"  I  would  have  spoken,  but  a  soft  wind  swept 
the  leaves,  and  strewed  the  flowers  around  us, 
as  the  snow  is  swept  from  the  cloud.  Scarcely 
were  the  flowers  fallen,  when  I  saw,  hanging  be- 
tween the  leaves,  the  red  pomegranate,  like  the 
almonds  upon  Aaron's  rod.  The  man  of  God 
left  me  in  deep  wonder." 

Here  Nathan  ceased.  Then  asked  Sojomon, 
hastily,  *'  Where  is  he  .'*  What  was  the  name 
of  that  godlike  man  }     Does  he  yet  live  ?" 

Nathan  answered,  "  Son  of  David,  I  have  told 
you  a  dream." 

Then  Solomon  was  troubled  in  his  mind,  and 
said,  "  Why  hast  thou  thus  deceived  me  .^" 

"  I  have  not  deceived  thee,  my  son,"  replied 
the  Prophet.  "  Look  !  in  thy  father's  garden 
may^st  thou  behold  all  I  have  described.  I)oes 
not  the  same  happen  to  yonder  pomegranate,  and 
other  trees  .^" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Solomon  ;  "  but  unnoticed, 
and  in  a  lono^  time." 


118         THE    SICK    MAN    AND    THE    ANGEL. 

"Is  it  less  a  godlike  work,"  said  Nathan, 
"because  it  is  done  in  silence,  and  unmarked  ? 
To  me,  it  seems  the  greater  miracle. 

"  Learn  to  know  Nature^  and  Jier  works ! 
Then  shalt  thou  acknowledge  a  Supreme  Power, 
and  behold  miracles  wrought  continually  around 
thee." 


THE   SICK  MAN  AND   THE   ANGEL. 

Is  there  no  hope  ?  the  sick  man  said, 
The  silent  doctor  shook  his  head, 
And  took  his  leave,  with  signs  of  sorrow, 
Despairing  of  his  fee  to-morrow. 
When  thus  the  man,  with  gasping  breath, 
I  feel  the  chilling  wound  of  death  : 
Since  I  must  bid  the  world  adieu. 
Let  me  my  former  life  review. 
I  grant  my  bargains  well  were  made. 
But  all  men  overreach  in  trade  ; 
'Tis  self-defence  in  each  profession  : 
Sure  self-defence  is  no  transgression  ! 
The  little  portion  in  my  hands, 
*  By  good  security  on  lands. 
Is  well  increas'd.     If  unawares 
My  justice  to  myself  and  heirs 
Hath  let  my  debtor  rot  in  jail, 
For  want  of  good,  sufficient  bail ; 


:r^ 


THE    SICK    MAN    AND    THE    ANGEL.         119 

If  I  by  writ,  or  bond,  or  deed, 

Reduc'd  a  family  to  need. 

My  will  hath  made  the  world  amends ; 

My  hope  on  charity  depends. 

When  I  am  number'd  with  the  dead. 

And  all  my  pious  gifts  are  read, 

By  Heav'n  and  earth  'twill  then  be  known. 

My  charities  were  amply  shown. 

An  Angel  came.     Ah  friend  !  he  cry'd, 
No  more  in  flatt'ring  hope  confide. 
Can  thy  good  deeds  in  former  times, 
Outweigh  the  balance  of  thy  crimes  ? 
What  widow  or  what  orphan  prays 
To  crown  thy  life  with  length  of  days  ? 
A  pious  action's  in  thy  pow'r. 
Embrace  with  joy  the  happy  hour  ; 
Now,  while  you  draw  the  vital  air. 
Prove  your  intention  is  sincere  : 
This  instant  give  an  hundred  pound  ; 
Your  neighbors  want,  and  you  abound. 

But  why  such  haste  !  the  sick  man  whines. 
Who  knows  as  yet  what  Heav'n  designs  ? 
Perhaps  I  may  recover  still. 
That  sum  and  more  are  in  my  will. 

Fool,  says  the  vision,  now  'tis  plain. 
Your  life,  your  soul,  your  Heaven  was  gain. 
From  every  side,  with  all  your  might. 
You  scraped  and  scraped  beyond  your  right ; 
And  after  death  would  fain  atone. 
By  giving  what  is  not  your  own. 

While  there  is  life  there's  hope,  he  cried  : 
Then  why  such  haste  ?  so  groan'd  and  died. 


%= 


120  THE    OLD    SERVANT. 


THE    OLD    SERVANT. 

Mr.  Leonard,  though  possessed  of  a  good 
heart,  excellent  abilities,  and  an  upright  mind, 
did  not  at  all  make  his  family  happy  ;  the  vio- 
lence of  his  temper  prevailed  over  these  good 
qualities,  and  sometimes  rendered  him  the  most 
unamiable  of  men.  His  wife  in  vain  showed 
all  the  sweetness  and  moderation  with  which 
Nature  had  endowed  her.  Young  Edmond,  her 
son,  more  struck  by  these  terrible  bursts  of 
passion  than  by  the  affection  that  his  father 
evinced  for  him  at  other  times,  was  always  con- 
strained and  trembling  in  his  presence.  One 
person  only  dared  sometimes  endeavor  to  bring 
him  to  reason ;  this  was  Maurice,  an  old  serv- 
ant, who  had  lived  with  the  father  of  his  present 
master,  and  had  for  sixty  years  been  attached  to 
the  family.  Mr.  Leonard,  without  feeling  for 
the  old  servant  all  the  regard  that  his  fidelity 
merited,  preserved,  however,  a  certain  reserve 
towards  this  venerable  man. 

Disagreeing  with  all  his  neighbors,  who  en- 
% 


THE    OLD    SERVANT.  121 

deavored  to  avoid  him  as  soon  as  his  impetuous 
humor  began  to  manifest  itself,  Mr.  Leonard 
chose  rather  to  complain  of  their  conduct  than 
to  confess  himself  to  blame.  In  his  usual  man- 
ner, he  sought  to  quarrel  with  one  of  them  re- 
specting the  limits  of  a  wood.  His  neighbor,  an 
honorable  man,  and  incapable  of  yielding  any- 
thing that  he  knew  justly  belonged  to  him,  as- 
serted his  pretensions  with  firmness  ;  and  a  law- 
suit was  about  to  commence,  when  Maurice,  who 
had  known  for  so  many  years  all  the  boundaries 
of  Mr.  Leonard's  estate,  informed  his  master 
that  he  was  in  error  respecting  this  affair.  Mr. 
Leonard  haughtily  replied,  that  he  had  a  title 
to  it. 

The  law-suit  commenced  ;  Mr.  Leonard  think- 
ing he  was  right,  because  he  wished  it ;  not  that 
a  small  portion  of  wood  tempted  his  avarice,  but 
because  his  self-love  was  interested.  The  title, 
however,  upon  which  he  grounded  his  claim  had 
nothing  valid  in  it ;  and  when  it  was  necessary 
to  bring  forward  witnesses  in  support  of  it,  he 
desired  Maurice  to  depose  in  his  favor. 

"  Do  not  hope  it,"  replied  the  old  servant ; 
''  I  never  knew  how  to  tell  a  falsehood,  and  I 
will  not  burthen  myself  with  this  sin  at  the  age 
of  seventy-eight.     I  have  done  my  duty,  in  pre- 


122  THE    OLD    SERVANT. 

viouslj  informing  you  that  your  pretensions  were 
unjust :  you  have  not  believed  me  ;  and  I  will 
not  betray  my  conscience  to  satisfy  you." 

Mr.  Leonard,  in  a  transport  of  rage,  called 
him  an  ungrateful  villain,  and  commanded  him 
to  deliver  his  bill,  for  what  was  due  to  him  in 
wages.  "  It  is  time/'  he  added,  "  that  I  dis- 
burthen  myself  of  a  servant  unworthy  of  my 
kindness,  and  who  carries  his  audacity  so  far  as 
to  forget  that  I  am  his  master  and  he  is  my 
valet." 

To  these  hard  words,  which  rent  his  heart, 
Maurice  made  no  answer,  but  retired  to  his 
chamber,  and  began  to  weep  bitterly.  Mr. 
Leonard  would  not  allow  himself  time  to  be 
softened,  but  immediately  sought  another  do- 
mestic. On  the  arrival  of  this  stranger,  Madame 
Leonard  and  her  son,  with  a  tender  solicitude, 
went  to  poor  Maurice  ;  Edmond  embraced  him 
in  tears,  and  Madame  Leonard  thus  addressed 
him  : — "  What !  good  old  man,  is  it  possible 
you  can  think  of  leaving  us  ? — whatever  may 
be  the  violence  of  my  husband,  he  loves  you ; 
and  you  only  have  any  influence  over  his 
mind." 

Maurice  raised  his  head  with  surprise. 

"  You  strive  in  vain  to  conceal  it  from  us," 


THE    OLD    SERVANT.  123 

cried   Edmond,  sighing ;    "we   have  seen  the 
man  who  is  to  replace  you." 

"  You  have  seen  him  !"  exclaimed  Maurice, 
quickly  ;  "  is  it  possible  that  my  master  will  be 
unfeeling  enough  to  discharge  me  .'"' 

He  then  related,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  what 
had  passed.  Madame  Leonard,  affected  by  the 
grief  of  the  old  man,  assured  him  that  her  hus- 
band would  not  fail  to  repent,  and  that  he  must 
excuse  an  action  excited  by  passion. 

"  No,  no,"  replied  Maurice,  with  resolution, 
"  he  no  longer  loves  me,  and  I  ought  to  quit  him 
forever.  I  know  that  he  is  violent ;  but  having 
already  made  choice  of  another  servant — ah  ! 
there  is  no  doubt  of  his  intention.  It  is  to  no 
purpose  that  I  have  closed  the  eyes  of  his  worthy 
father ;  that  I  have  carried  him  in  my  arms  ; 
and  that  I  have  with  fatherly  care  watched  the 
infant  years  of  his  own  son  ; — he  has  discharged 
me  in  my  old  age,  and  has  forgotten  my  long 
services,  and  the  attachment  I  have  ever  shown 
for  him." 

Maurice  wept  bitterly  in  uttering  these  words  ; 
but  his  resolution  was  taken,  and  sorrow  took 
possession  of  his  heart.  Edmond  bathed  his 
hands  with  tears  ;  and  Madame  Leonard  also 
showed  him  every  mark  of  esteem  and  regret. 
%-         -  ^ 


124  THE    OLD    SERVANT. 

Maurice  left  the  house  on  the  same  day,  with- 
out demanding  anything  of  his  master,  and  taking 
nothing  with  him  but  the  produce  of  his  savings 
and  a  small  parcel  of  clothes  which  was  carried 
by  a  young  servant  by  the  order  of  Madame 
Leonard. 

It  was  not  without  some  emotion  that  Mr. 
Leonard  learned  the  departure  of  this  good  old 
man :  he  wished  to  have  held  out  to  him  an  op- 
portunity of  being  again  received  into  favor. 
Offended  at  his  conduct,  he  suppressed  the 
secret  sentiment  that  pleaded  in  his  favor,  and 
sent  Maurice  the  money  he  had  not  deigned  to 
claim. 

Having  retired  to  an  humble  lodging  at  the 
extremity  of  the  town,  Maurice  lived,  if  not 
happy,  at  least  in  peace,  until  he  was  seized 
with  an  attack  of  the  gout,  during  which  he  was 
robbed  of  all  his  money.  Edmond  frequently 
visited  him,  without  the  knowledge  of  his  father, 
and  carried  him  nourishing  food,  and  the  dessert 
of  which  he  deprived  himself.  The  society  of 
this  child,  whom  he  had  always  loved,  was  a 
great  consolation  to  the  good  old  man,  who  shed 
tears  of  joy  whenever  he  saw  him  seated  near 
his  pillow.  Madame  Leonard,  without  appearing 
to  sanction  it,  entirely  approved  of  her  son's 


THE    OLD    SERVANT.  125 

conduct,  and  always  doubled  his  portion  at 
table. 

These  attentions  were  very  desirable  to  poor 
Maurice,  who  had  nearly  lost  his  appetite  ;  but 
it  did  not  save  him  from  the  cruel  situation  in 
which  he  was  placed  in  consequence  of  having 
been  robbed.  Edmond  was  still  ignorant  of 
this  misfortune,  until  one  day  he  was  witness  to 
the  menaces  of  Maurice's  landlord,  who  threat- 
ened to  turn  him  out  of  doors.  Edmond,  seized 
with  pity  at  the  sufferings  of  the  poor  old  man, 
begged  the  inhuman  landlord  to  retire,  and  prom- 
ised to  satisfy  him  before  the  day  had  passed. 
He  immediately  repaired  to  his  mother,  and, 
falling  on  his  knees  before  her,  entreated  that 
she  would  hasten  to  the  assistance  of  Maurice. 
Madame  Leonard,  who  was  not  in  possession  of 
any  money,  and  unwilling  to  ask  her  husband, 
secretly  sold  a  pair  of  ear-rings. 

The  money  produced  by  this  sale  appeased 
the  landlord  for  the  present ;  but  as  it  could 
not  last  long,  the  old  man,  not  wishing  to  abuse 
the  generosity  of  Edmond  and  his  mother,  re- 
quested to  be  conveyed  to  an  hospital.  Edmond 
in  tears  supplicated  him  not  to  make  himself  so 
miserable  ;  he  vowed  a  thousand  times  never  to 
abandon  him.  Maurice,  deeply  affected  by  the 
^  — 


126  THE    OLD    SERVANT. 

tenderness  of  the  child,  strove  to  soften  this  idea  ; 
Edmond  would  not  listen  to  anything.  The  same 
day,  fearing  to  importune  his  mother,  he  decided 
upon  selling  a  beautiful  edition  of  the  Iliad,  which 
he  had  received  as  a  prize  in  his  class.  Scarcely 
had  he  entered  the  shop  of  the  bookseller,  with 
whom  he  hoped  to  arrange  the  sale,  than  he  per- 
ceived his  father  seated  near  the  counter.  Ed- 
mond was  so  frightened  at  this  meeting,  that  he 
let  his  books  fall. 

"  What  do  you  want  here,  my  child  .?"  cried 
Mr.  Leonard,  surprised ;  "  and  why  all  these 
books  .?" 

Edmond  blushed  and  stammered ;  dreading  the 
anger  of  his  father,  he  could  only  press  his  hand 
and  weep.  Mr.  Leonard,  painfully  affected  at 
the  trouble  in  which  he  saw  his  son,  took  him 
aside,  and  with  gentleness  requested  him  to 
confess  the  truth,  previously  assuring  him  that 
he  was  ready  to  forgive  him  if  he  was  in  fault. 
Emboldened  by  this  unexpected  moderation,  Ed- 
mond replied,  with  downcast  eyes,  that  he  came 
to  sell  his  books,  to  prevent  Maurice  from  going 
into  a  hospital. 

These  few  words  acted  like  a  flash  of  lightning 
on  Mr.  Leonard ;  a  mixture  of  repentance  and 
tenderness  seized  him,  so  that  his  eyes  filled 


THE    OLD    SERVANT.  127 

with  tears.  "  Conduct  me  to  Maurice,"  said  he 
to  his  son,  embracing  him. 

Edmond,  overwhelmed  with  joy,  did  not  wait 
to  have  the  order  repeated.  On  approaching 
the  lodgings,  they  met  a  handbarrow,  upon 
which  an  old  man,  enveloped  in  blankets,  lay 
extended  ; — it  was  Maurice,  whom  they  were 
conveying  to  the  hospital.  Mr.  Leonard  held 
Edmond,  who  would  have  thrown  himself  into 
his  arms,  and  directed  the  porters  to  carry  the 
patient  to  his  own  house.  Maurice,  whose  suf- 
ferings were  great,  did  not  observe  this  meeting. 
They  put  him  into  the  bed  which  he  had  so  long 
occupied ;  the  old  man  cast  his  eyes  upon  all 
that  he  could  observe  ;  he  dared  not  believe 
them,  but  imagined  he  was  in  a  delirious  fever. 
At  length  he  perceived  Edmond  ;  tears  bathed 
his  venerable  cheeks,  he  extended  his  feeble 
arms  towards  him  : — "  My  son  !  my  dear  son  !" 
cried  he,  "you  have  then  followed  me  ! — em- 
brace me,  that  I  may  be  sure  I  am  not  deceived 
by  a  sweet  dream,  for  my  eyes  certainly  deceive 
me — ^I  do  not  know  where  I  am  !" 

"  What !"  cried  Edmond,  pressing  him  in  his 
arms,  "  do  not  you  recollect  your  old  bed- 
chamber .?" 


%- 


128  THE    OLD    SERVANT. 

"  It  appears  to  me  that  this  is  the  house  of 
Mr.  Leonard,"  continued  Maurice. 

"It  is  also  thy  future  residence,  good  old 
man,"  interrupted  Mr.  Leonard,  embracing 
him  ;  "  forget  my  injustice,  and  never  leave 
us." 

Maurice  wept  with  joy  when  he  heard  these 
words.  Madame  Leonard  came,  in  her  turn,  to 
express  the  pleasure  she  felt  on  seeing  him  again 
in  the  midst  of  them.  The  satisfaction  he  ex- 
perienced, together  with  the  care  and  attention 
which  he  received,  accelerated  his  cure  and  pro- 
longed his  days,  and  he  ever  considered  Edmond 
as  his  little  benefactor. 

Mr.  Leonard,  struck  with  the  cruelty  of  which 
he  had  been  guilty  by  abandoning  himself  to  the 
impulse  of  passion,  determined,  in  consequence, 
to  entirely  overcome  this  fault.  This  violence 
of  temper,  which  makes  a  good  heart  so  far  for- 
get itself,  is  seldom  of  long  duration  ;  but  self- 
love  often  prolongs  its  effects  :  the  shame  of 
confessing  a  fault  prevents  the  reparation  of  it, 
and  the  heart  secretly  disavows  it  a  long  time 
before  the  conduct  can  conform  itself  to  the 
measure  of  repentance. 


%=z 


THE  child's  companion.  129 


THE  CHILD'S  COMPANION. 

A  liiTTiiE  child  went  wandering 
Through  life's  uncertain  ways. 

With  never  changing  purity 
Upon  his  cherub  face. 

His  hand  seemed  clasping  tenderly 
A  dear,  though  viewless  guide, 

He  gently  moved,  as  keeping  step 
With  some  one  at  his  side. 

When  overcome  with  weariness. 

With  hunger,  pain  or  grief. 
He  pressed  the  hand  beseechingly. 

And  quickly  found  relief. 

He  suffered  not  from  loneliness. 
That  friendless  orphan  child. 

For  he  had  sweet  companionship 
In  town  and  desert  wild. 

To  join  in  strife  or  revelry. 

If  he  inclined  to  stray. 
He  felt  a  touch  restraining  him,  ' 

And  leading  him  away. 


% 

130  THE  child's  companion. 

He  chafed  not  at  this  watchfulness, 

But  blessed  his  loving  care 
Who  walked  with  him  so  faithfully. 

Amid  the  silent  air. 

At  length  that  childish  countenance 

Grew  pallid  with  disease, 
His  frame  was  weak  and  tottering, 

And  trembling  were  his  knees. 

Then  on  support  invisible. 

More  fondly  he  would  lean. 
And  added  peace  and  holiness 

Were  on  his  features  seen. 

He  smiled  to  see  how  rapidly 

He  wasted  to  the  bone. 
For  thus  he  felt  more  certainly 

The  hand  that  clasped  his  own. 

One  morning  he  was  motionless — 

Relaxed  his  tender  hold — 
The  body  of  the  wanderer 

Was  lifeless,  stiff  and  cold. 

But  when  amid  the  dawning  light 

Above,  he  seemed  to  die, 
Two  shining  spirits,  hand  in  hand. 

Went  soaring  up  the  sky. 


^'  ■ -^^^^ 

THE  FALL  FROM  THE  SWING.      131 


THE  FALL  FEOM  THE  SWING. 

A  TRUE    STQ-RY 

BT     CAROLINE      HOWARD. 

I  SHALL  never,  no,  never  forget  it,"  said  the 
gentleman. 

"Can  you  tell  me  about  it  ?"  said  my  mother, 
in  her  gentle  sympathizing  tone. 

"  Yes,  draw  nearer." 

I  had  been  sewing  very  busily  before  'these 
words  were  uttered,  not  interested  in  what  my 
mother  and  her  guest  were  conversing  about.  I 
merely  heard  the  murmur  of  their  voices,  but 
that  did  not  disturb  my  quiet,  and  I  turned  over 
in  my  mind  my  past,  present,  and  future  plans, 
scarcely  conscious  that  any  one  was  in  the  room 
but  myself;  but  these  words  uttered  by  the 
gentleman  were  so  emphatic  that  I  almost 
thought  that  his  invitation  was  for  me  to  draw 
near  too,  and  I  laid  aside  my  work,  and  listened 
to  the  following  thrilling  story  : 

"  Francis  Walpole  and  I  were  friends  in  our 


132      THE  FALL  FROM  THE  SWING. 

childhood,  friends  in  the  widest  sense  of  a  school- 
boy's interpretation  of  that  sacred  word,  and  we 
were  neighbors  in  the  broad  and  beautiful  coun- 
try where  there  were  no  bounds  to  our  pleasures 
and  no  city  restraints  in  our  rambles.  It  seemed 
as  if  I  could  not  love  and  prize  him  enough,  and 
I  sought  for  no  other  companionship  and  cared 
for  no  other  ear  in  which  to  whisper  my  triumphs, 
failures  or  wrongs.  His  arm  and  his  advice  were 
always  at  my  service,  and  ijaany  a  hard  blow  did 
he  gain  for  defending  my  cause,  right  or  wrong. 
I  love  to  dwell. upon  his  refined  and  manly  beauty, 
his  strangely  powerful  strength  of  muscle,  his 
determination  when  he  felt  that  his  cause  was 
just ;  and  few  were  the  boys,  even  older  than 
he,  who  feared  not  to  feel  a  blow  that  he  could 
give  either  in  jest  or  in  earnest.  I  said  that  we 
were  neighbors  in  the  country,  but  besides  our 
family  and  his,  two  others  lived  near  us  on  terms 
of  great  intimacy.  The  grounds  of  each  house 
met  in  a  kind  of  court  yard,  with  no  inhospitable 
fences  to  intervene,  and  we  made  a  play  ground 
of  this  large  space,  and  had  ample  room  to  in- 
dulge in  the  usual  sports  of  boys,  such  as  cricket, 
leap  frog,  marbles  and  kites,  while  the  girls  chose 
the  more  feminine  diversions  of  battledoor,  ball, 
and  the  skipping  rope.     But  whatever  were  our 


^^ 


THE  FALL  FROM  THE  SWING.      133 


separate  sports,  we  met  on  common  ground  in  a 
swing,  which  Mr.  Walpole,  who  was  a  kind  and 
indulgent  father,  had  erected  for  his  son.  Noth- 
ing was  more  fascinating.  It  consisted  of  two 
very  high  upright  posts,  with  a  cross  piece  on 
the  top,  from  which  the  rope  was  suspended. 
The  swing  held  two  children  easily,  and  we 
seldom  paid  a  visit  to  the  upper  regions  alone. 
Sometimes  we  rough  boys  mounted  the  air-car 
together,  wild  with  joy  and  frolic,  or  at  other 
times  we  would  give  the  ropes  a  gentle  impulse, 
while  sweet  Annie  Morris  floated  to  and  fro,  only 
wanting  wings,  in  our  imaginations,  to  resemble 
a  flying  angel ;  and  sometimes,  to  our  shame  be 
it  spoken,  we  twisted  the  rope  while  wild  Bet 
Dayton  was  held  prisoner,  and  released  it  on  a 
concerted  signal  while  it  carried  the  unfortunate 
girl  whirling  round  and  round,  till  she  grew  weary 
of  asking  mercy  at  our  hands,  or  until  we  had 
obtained  a  promise  from  her,  which  she  never 
afterwards  kept,  of  playing  upon  us  no  more 
practical  jokes.  Oh  !  merry  times  did  that  old 
swing  see,  but  alas  !  it  saw  a  sad  scene  too. 
One  afternoon,  a  party  of  six  girls  and  boys  were 
gathered  around  it,  ready  to  take  their  turn  in 
our  air-car,  as  we  called  it.  Each  selected  his 
or  her  companion  for  the  voyage.     Annie  Morris 

k  •  -^ 


134      THE  FALL  FROM  THE  SWING. 

chose  Dick  White,  for  she  knew  that  he,  like 
herself,  did  not  like  to  swing  very  high,  and  wild 
Bet  Dayton  found  a  corresponding  spirit  in  Tom 
Stephens,  who  boasted  that  he  could  throw  a 
ball  so  nicely  upward,  that  he  could  catch  it  in 
the  next  forward  motion,  before  it  could  fall  to 
the  ground.  We  had  often  heard  of,  but  never 
had  seen  this  wonderful  feat  j  however,  we  did 
not  for  one  instant  doubt  Tom's  word.  As 
usual,  Frank  and  I  with  arms  interlaced  awaited 
our  turn  together.  It  was  a  delicious  afternoon, 
the  skies  were  glowing  with  the  red  rays  of  the 
departing  sun,  and  the  air  was  full  of  fragrance. 
From  the  open  windows  of  the  four  neighbor's 
houses,  a  friendly  face  was  occasionally  seen, 
or  a  mother  or  sister  would  smile  upon  our 
sport." 

Here  the  gentleman  paused  suddenly,  cov- 
ered his  face  with  his  hand,  and  sighed  so 
deeply,  that  I  thought  that  the  action  and  the 
sigh  were  an  earnest  of  something  very  sad  that 
he  was  going  to  relate,  and  so  it  proved. 

"  At  length  our  turn  came.  ''  We  can  beat 
them  all,"  said  Frank,  with  a  loud  ringing  laugh 
— "  hallo  !  John,  what  do  you  say  to  trying  to 
touch  one  of  those  low  white  clouds  that  come 
so  temptingly  near  us  .^" 

^ 


"=% 


THE  FALL  FROM  THE  SWING.      135 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  replied  I,  "  nothing 
venture,  nothing  have  !  push,  you  lazy  fellows — 
all's  ready,  one,  two,  three  ;  we're  off,"  and  with 
the  united  efforts  of  the  two  other  boys  we  soon 
attained  a  respectable  height,  and  felt  as  happy 
as  birds  in  the  air.  Higher  and  higher  we 
swung,  higher  than  we  had  ever  ventured  before. 
The  boys  below  seemed  like  dwarfs  to  our  eyes, 
and  the  girls'  white  dresses  like  fairy  robes. 

"Is  not  this  almost  too  high,"  said  I  to 
Frank,  tremblingly,  for  I  felt  a  sensation  of 
dizziness  as  I  looked  below. 

"  Too  high  !"  exclaimed  Frank,  who  I  believe 
never  feared  anything,  "  too  high  !  you  coward, 
no  !  I  tell  you  we  could  not  be  too  near  the 
skies  if  we  followed  the  flight  of  that  swallow 
yonder." 

Upward  and  upward,  higher  and  higher,  nearer 
the  swallow  we  soared.  "We  heard  our  compan- 
ions below  screaming  to  us  to  stop,  and  we  saw 
from  the  windows  of  the  neighbor's  houses  hand- 
kerchiefs waving,  which  we  always  understood 
as  a  signal  to  return  home,  and  Frank,  who  was 
always  thoughtful  of  the  feelings  of  others  and 
obedient  to  his  parents'  slightest  wish,  stopped 
his  exertions  to  keep  the  swing  going,  intending 
to  let  the  motion  "  die  away"  gradually. 


=)« 


% 

136      THE  FALL  FROM  THE  SWING.  ' 

"  Let  US  give  tlie  setting  sun  three  cheers," 
said  he,  "  before  he  leaves  us,"  and  holding  out 
both  his  hands  and  waving  them  above  his  head, 
(for  he  depended  upon  being  balanced  by  his 
feet,)  he  gave  one  singing  shout  gushing  out 
from  the  very  fulness  of  a  happy  heart,  lost  his 
equilibrium,  and  fell  down,  down,  down,  helpless 
to  the  earth." 

The  gentleman  shivered  here  as  if  he  were 
cold,  and  again  covered  up  his  eyes  and  drew 
nearer  to  the  fire.  Mother  made  a  motion  for 
him  to  proceed,  and  at  last  he  said : 

"  There  he  remained,  and  there  I  beheld  him, 
as  each  forward  and  backward  motion  of  the 
swing  brought  me  nearer  to  the  ground.  I  was 
helpless  myself,  and  I  dared  not  spring  out  for 
two  reasons.  One  was,  that  I  thought  that  I 
might  crush  him,  for  I  could  not  calculate  my 
distance  ;  and  the  other  was,  that  just  after  his 
fall  the  swing  was  too  great  a  distance  from  the 
earth  for  me  to  have  attempted  it.  The  children 
screamed,  and  made  several  ineffectual  attempts 
to  draw  him  out,  but  the  continued  vibration  of 
the  pendulum-like  swing  prevented  their  touch- 
ing him,  as  he  was  immediately  under  the  path 
which  it  described.  At  length  his  mother  came 
with  a  crowd  of  friends,  and  I,  freed  from  my 


%- 


THE  FALL  FROM  THE  SWING.      137 

unhappy  position,  looked  on  frightened  and  with 
tearful  eyes. 

"  His  mother  !  merciful  heaven,  shall  I  ever 
forget  her  strange  expression,  as  she  looked  for 
some  signs  of  blood,  some  bruise,  to  tell  her 
where  the  injury  was,  and  in  vain  ?  or  will  her 
idiotic  stare  and  her  continued,  ever  continued 
screams  forever  come  up  to  my  mind,  curdling 
my  blood  in  my  veins,  and  making  a  trembler  of 
me  even  now  ? 

"  All  was  tried  on  the  spot  that  kindness  could 
suggest,  to  bring  him  back  to  life  and  to  us,  but 
with  no  effect.  A  messenger  was  instantly  des- 
patched to  the  nearest  town,  where  his  father 
pursued  his  business,  and  for  a  physician,  al- 
though we  felt  that  the  aid  of  the  latter  would 
be  useless. 

"  Mrs.  Walpole  was  a  slight  and  delicate 
woman,  but  she  took  the  body  in  her  arms,  and 
scarcely  staggered  beneath  its  heavy  weight ; 
and  on  she  went,  accepting  no  offers  of  assist- 
ance from  the  busy  neighbors,  until  she  laid  him 
on  a  couch  in  her  own  room,  and  then  sinking 
down  by  his  side  with  her  strength  over-tasked, 
she  fainted.  Every  one  who  wished,  came  in  to 
look  at  the  lovely  boy,  beautiful  beyond  descrip- 
tion.    His  long  dark  eye-lashes,  the  longest  I 

%'  :-^ 


13S 


THE  FALL  FROM  THE  SWING. 


ever  saw,  swept  his  pale  cheeks,  and  his  lips,  so 
brilliant  once,  were  indeed  still  smiling,  but  it 
was  the  smile  of  carved  marble.  Every  restora- 
tive that  we  could  think  of,  was  tried  again  and 
again,  but  the  hand  slid  lifelessly  from  our  loving 
grasp,  and  the  heart-beats  seemed  hushed  for- 
ever.    The  town  of  •  w*s  several  miles 

distant,  and  it  would  be  some  hours  before  we 
could  hope  for  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Walpole  and 
the  physician.  The  ladies  gathered  round,  and 
measured  the  white  shroud  which  was  to  cover 
my  beloved  friend.  Mrs.  Walpole  looked  on 
unresisting,  and  saw  them  close  his  white  eye- 
lids more  securely,  and  press  together  his  smiling 
lips,  but  as  they  were  about  to  clothe  him  in  the 
accustomed  robe  of  death,  she  stayed  their  hands, 
and  whispered  hoarsely, 

''  Only  let  his  father  see  him  as  he  is,  so  life- 
like, so  beautiful — array  him  not  yet  in  the  gar- 
ments of  the  grave.  A  shroud  !  My  Francis 
in  a  shroud !  Oh,  no  !  it  cannot  be  ;  let  me.  die 
rather.  Her  wish  was  granted,  for  her  husband, 
many  miles  in  advance  of  the  physician,  rushed 
into  the  room,  and  beheld  the  boy  whom  he  had 
left  in  the  early  morning,  with  a  parting  blessing 
on  his  beloved  head,  now  stretched  out  with  no 
smile  to  greet  him,  and  no  welcome  in  his  voice. 


^  =% 

THE  FALL  FROM  THE  SWING.      139 

What  cared  he  for  the  light  of  the  sun,  or  the 
moon,  or  the  stars,  now  that  the  light  of  his  life 
had  departed  ?  He  only  felt  that  his  boy  was 
claimed  by  a  new  parent — Death  ! 

''  The  physician  came  at  last,  but  no  encour- 
aging smile  was  upon  his  benevolent  countenance 
as  he  felt  the  boy's  pulse,  and  while  we  all 
watched  him,  hopeful  even  in  our  despair.  He 
pushed  the  thick  curls  from  his  white  brow,  and 
pressed  his  fingers  upon  the  pulseless  temples 
of  our  idol ;  he  felt  his  heart,  the  seat  of  life,  but- 
at  each  action  a  greater  cloud  of  disappointment 
shaded  his  face.  "  At  any  rate,"  said  he,  with 
a  mournful,  sympathizing  smile,  "  we  will  leave 
no  means  untried,  and  we  will  see  if  the  blood  is 
entirely  stagnated." 

"  We  all  gathered  round,  wondering  that  the 
use  of  the  lancet  had  not  occurred  to  us  before, 
and  blamed  each  other  for  the  omission,  but  as  is 
often  the  case  in  great  danger,  we  had  neglected 
the  only  means  that  could  have  restored  con- 
sciousness, had  there  been  life  there.  We  took 
a  fresh  gleam  of  hope  from  the  proceeding. 
Each  heart  seemed  beating  with  a  redoubled 
impetus." 

The  gentleman  stopped  again  here,  and  smiled 
as  if  communing  with  himself,  but  I  did  not  like 


140      THE  FALL  FROM  THE  SWING. 

the  interruption,  for  I  felt  as  I  were  standing  by 
the  insensible  child  awaiting  the  issue,  and  I 
impatiently  exclaimed,  "  Well  ?" 

He  recollected  himself  and  continued.  *'  The 
lancet  did  its  work  surely,  nobly.  No  blood 
flowed  for  some  time,  but  at  length  a  drop  slowly 
oozed  from  the  puncture,  and  another,  and 
another,  until  at  last  it  came  as  freely  as  we 
could  desire,  and  then  a  slight  tinge  of  pink 
colored  those  silent  lips,  and  a  soft  sigh  came 
from  his  breast,  as  audible  to  us  though  as  if  it 
had  been  a  trumpet's  blast.  There  was  life, 
there  was  hope.  The  physician  motioned  us  to 
be  quiet,  the  mother  suppressed  her  screams  of 
joy,  while  the  father  wept  silently,  bewildered 
by  this  sudden  transition  from  agony  to  bliss,  and 
we,  who  stood  around,  simultaneously  bent  our 
knees  in  silent  prayer,  each  oficring  a  petition  to 
the  Giver  of  all  good,  to  continue  the  life  which 
hung  suspended  there.  And  the  prayer  was 
granted.  For  three  days,  my  friend,  who  was 
the  object  of  so  many  prayers,  was  unconscious 
of  all  that  was  passing  around  ;  but  on  the 
fourth,  his  eyes  opened  calmly  upon  earth's 
scenes,  and  before  long,  he  was  enabled  to  en- 
gage once  more  in  the  duties  and  pleasures  that 
belong  to  earth.  Whether  in  that  long  trance 
§1—  ='^ 


LINES.  141 

of  unconsciousness,  his  soul  journeyed  to  the  land 
of  pure  spirits,  and  there  learned  lessons  of 
beauty  and  goodness,  I  know  not,  nor  can  he 
fathom  that  parting  of  the  spirit  from  the  body, 
but  this  I  do  know,  that  since  that  awakening 
hour,  the  steps  of  my  friend  have  been  onward 
and  heavenward,  trying  to  lead  other  souls  into 
the  land  of  pure  spirits,  and  endeavoring  to 
reach,  by  the  holiness  of  his  life  here^  the  perfect 
rest  hereafter. 


^ 


_rf^/vw^/^/\/v^/^<— 


LINES. 


BY     MRS.      ELLET. 


0  WEARY  heart !  there  is  a  rest  for  thee ; 

0  truant  heart !  there  is  a  blessed  home  ! 
An  isle  of  gladness  on  life's  wayward  sea, 

Where  storms  that  vex  the  waters  never  come. 
Winnowed  by  wings  immortal  that  fair  isle. 

Vocal  its  air  with  music  from  above  ; 
There  meets  the  exile-heart  a  welcoming  smile ; 

There  ever  speaks  a  summoning  voice  of  love 
Unto  the  heavy  laden  and  distressed — 

"  Come  unto  me,  and  I  will  give  you  rest." 


142  SYMPATHY. 


SYMPATHY. 

How  beautiful  is  sympathy,  especially  in  the 
young !  See  how  kindly  the  boy  looks  in  the 
face  of  the  sleeping  old  man.  half  unwilling  to 
awaken  him,  though  it  is  time  to  pursue  his 
journey.  The  little  girl,  who  has  come  from 
the  neighboring  village  to  pick  berries,  peeps 
timidly  from  behind  the  stump  ;  and  she  also  is 
sorry  for  the  over-wearied  traveller,  though  she 
ventures  not  to  come  near.  The  poorest  can 
give  consolation,  and  find  it,  too,  in  acts  of  kind- 
ness and  benevolence*. 

A  mother,  who  was  in  the  habit  of  asking  her 
children,  before  they  retired  at  night,  what  they 
had  done  during  the  day  to  make  others  hajpj^y^ 
found  her  young  twin  daughters  silent.  The 
older  ones  spoke  modestly  of  deeds  and  disposi- 
tions, founded  on  the  golden  rule,  ''  Do  unto 
others  as  you  would  they  should  do  unto  you." 
.  Still  those  little  bright  faces  were  bowed  down 
in  serious  silence. 


SYMPATHY.  143 

The  question  was  repeated.  "  I  can  remem- 
ber nothing  good  all  this  day,  dear  mother  !  only 
one  of  my  school-fellows  was  happy,  because  she 
had  gained  the  head  of  the  class  ;  and  I  smiled 
on  her,  and  ran  to  kiss  her.  So  she  said  I  was 
good.     This  is  all,  dear  mother." 

The  other  spoke  still  more  timidly.  "  A  little 
girl  who  sat  by  me  on  the  bench  at  school,  had 
lost  a  baby  brother.  .  I  saw  that  while  she  studied 
her  lesson,  she,  hid  her  face  in  her  book,  and 
cried.  I  felt  sorry,  and  laid  my  face  on  the 
same  book,  and  cried  with  her.  Then  she 
looked  up  and  was  comforted,  and  put  her  arms 
round  my  neck.  But  I  do  not  know  why  she 
said  that  I  had  done  her  good." 

The  mother  knew  how  to  prize  the  first  blos- 
somings of  sympathy.  She  said,  "  Come  to  my 
arms,  beloved  ones  !  To  rejoice  with  those  who 
rejoice,  and  to  weep  with  those  who  weep,  is  to 
obey  our  blessed  Redeemer." 


%  —  ^ 


144      THE  ROSE  AND  THE  GRAVE. 


THE  EOSE  AND  THE  GRAVE. 

FBOM    THE    FBENCH. 

BY    MRS.    ELIiET. 

The  Rose  said  to  the  Grave — * 

"  0  sullen  tomb, 
"Where  go  the  souls  that  day  hy  day 

Pass  to  thy  gloom  ?" 

The  Grave  said  to  the  Rose — 

"  0  flower  of  love, 
Where  go  the  dews,  night  on  thy  breast 

Sheds  from  above  ?" 

The  Rose  said  to  the  Grave — 

"  A  perfume  rare 
My  leaves  from  dews  of  night  distil. 

Sweetening  the  air." 

The  Grave  said  to  the  Rose — 

"  To  me  'tis  given 
To  make  of  souls  that  come  to  me 

Angels  in  Heaven." 


PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    DIFFICULTIES.       145 


PEESEYERANCE  AGAINST  DIFFI- 
CULTIES. 

Theodore  was  a  boy  of  good  abilities,  and 
engaging  manners ;  but  he  had  the  failing  of 
being  extremely  impatient  in  his  temper,  and 
inclined  to  extremes.  He  was  ardent  in  all  his 
pursuits,  but  could  bear  no  disappointment ;  and 
if  the  least  thing  went  wrong,  he  gave  up  what 
he  was  about  in  a  pet,  and  could  not  be  prevailed 
upon  to  resume  it.  His  father,  Mr.  Carle  ton, 
had  given  him  a  bed  in  the  garden,  which  he  had 
cultivated  with  great  delight.  The  borders  were 
set  with  double  daisies  of  different  colors,  next 
to  which  was  a  row,of  auriculas  and  polyanthuses. 
Beyond,  were  stocks  and  other  taller  flowers  and 
shrubs  ;  and  a  beautiful  damask  rose  graced  the 
centre.  This  rose  was  just  budding,  and  Theo- 
dore watched  its  daily  progress  with  great  in- 
terest. One  unfortunate  day,  the  door  of  the 
garden  being  left  open,  a  drove  of  pigs  entered, 
and  began  to  riot  on  the  herbs  and  flowers.  An 
alarm  being  sounded,  Theodore  and  the  servant 


^  % 

146       PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    DIFFICULTIES. 

boy  rushed  upon  them,  smacking  their  whips. 
The  whole  herd,  in  affright,  took  their  course 
across  Theodore's  flower  bed,  on  which  some  of 
them  had  before  been  grazing.  Stocks,  daisies, 
and  auriculas,  were  all  trampled  down  or  torn 
up  ;  and,  what  was  worst  of  all,  one  of  the  swine 
ran  directly  over  the  beautiful  rose  tree,  and 
broke  off  its  stem  level  with  the  ground.  When 
Theodore  came  up,  and  beheld  all  the  mischief, 
and  especially  his  favorite  rose  strewed  on  the 
soil,  rage  and  grief  choked  his  utterance.  After 
standing  a-while,  the  picture  of  despair,  he 
snatched  up  a  spade  that  stood  near,  and,  with 
furious  haste,  dug  over  the  whole  bed,  and  buried 
all  the  relics  of  his  flowers  deep  under  the  soil. 
This  exertion  being  ended,  he  burst  into  tears, 
and  silently  left  the  garden. 

His  father,  who  had  beheld  the  scene  at  a 
distance,  though  somewhat  diverted  at  the  boy's 
childish  violence,  yet  began  seriously  to  reflect 
on  the  future  consequences  of  such  a  temper,  if 
suffered  to  grow  up  without  restraint.  He  said 
nothing  to  him  at  the  time,  but  in  the  afternoon 
he  took  him  a  walk  into  a  neighboring  parish. 

There  was  a  large  wild  common,  and  at  the 
skirts  of  it  a  neat  farm-house,  with  fields  lying 
round  it,  all  well  fenced,  and  cultivated  in  the 


~  :r:.—  ^=^ 

PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    DIFFICULTIES.        147' 

best  manner.  The  air  was  sweetened  with  the 
bean  flower  and  clover.  An  orchard  of  fine 
young  fruit-trees  lay  behind  the  house  ;  and 
before  it,  a  little  garden,  gay  with  all  the  flowers 
of  the  season.  A  stand  of  bee-hives  was  on  the 
southern  side,  sheltered  by  a  thick  hedge  of 
honey-suckle  and  sweet-brier.  The  farm-yard 
was  stocked  with  pigs  and  poultry.  A  herd  of 
cows  was  just  coming  home  to  be  milked.  Every- 
thing wore  the  aspect  of  plenty  and  good  manage- 
ment. The  charms  of  the  scene  struck  Theo- 
dore very  forcibly,  and  he  expressed  his  pleasure 
in  the  warmest  terms.  "  This  place,"  said  his 
father,  "  belongs  to  a  njan  who  is  the  most  strik- 
ing example  I  know  of  patient  fortitude,  bearing 
up  against  misfortune  ;  and  all  that  you  see  is 
the  reward  of  his  own  perseverance.  I  am  a 
little  acquainted  with  him  ;  and  we  will  go  in 
and  beg  a  draught  of  milk,  and  try  if  we  can 
prevail  upon  him  to  tell  us  his  story."  Theo- 
dore willingly  accompanied  his  father.  They 
were  received  by  the  farmer  with  cordial  frank- 
ness. After  they  were  seated,  Mr.  Carleton 
said  to  the  farmer,  "  Mr.  Hardman,  I  have 
often  heard  of  part  of  your  adventures,  but 
never  had  a  regular  account  of  the  whole.  If 
you  will  favor  me  and  my  little  boy  with  the 


148       PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    DIFFICULTIES. 

story  of  them,  we  shall  think  ourselves  much 
obliged  to  you." 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  said  he,  "  there's  little  in  them 
worth  telling  of,  as  far  as  I  know.  I  have  had 
my  ups  and  downs  in  the  world,  to  be  sure,  but 
so  have  many  men  beside.  However,  if  you 
wish  to  hear  about  them,  they  are  at  your  ser- 
vice ;  and  I  can't  say  but  it  gives  me  pleasure 
sometimes  to  talk  over  old  matters,  and  think 
how  much  better  things  have  turned  out  than 
might  have  been  expected." 

"Now  I  am  of  opinion,"  said  Mr.  Carleton, 
"  that  from  your  spirit  and  perseverance,  a 
good  conclusion  might  always  have  been  ex- 
pected." 

"  You  are  pleased  to  compliment,  sir,"  re- 
plied the  farmer,  "  but  I  will  begin  without  more 
words. 

"  You  may  perhaps  have  heard  that  my  father 
was  a  man  of  good  estate.  He  thought  of  noth- 
ing, poor  man,  but  how  to  spend  it ;  and  he  had 
the  uncommon  luck  to  spend  it  twice  over.  For 
when  he  was  obliged  to  sell  it  the  first  time,  it 
was  bought  in  by  a  relation,  who  left  it  him  again 
by  his  will.  But  my  poor  father  was  not  a  man 
to  take  warning.  He  fell  to  living  as  he  had 
done  before,  and  just  made  his  estate  and  his 
%  


PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    DIFFICULTIES.       149 

life  hold  out  together.  He  died  at  the  age  of 
five-and-forty,  and  left  his  family  beggars.  I 
believe  he  would  not  have  taken  to  drinking  as 
he  did,  had  it  not  been  for  his  impatient  temper, 
which  made  him  fret  and  vex  himself  for  every 
trifle,  and  then  he  would  endeavor  to  drown  his 
care  in  liquor. 

"  It  was  my  lot  to  be  taken  by  my  mother's 
brother,  who  was  master  of  a  merchant  ship. 
I  served  him  as  an  apprentice  several  years,  and 
suffered  a  good  deal  of  the  usual  hardship  of  a 
sailor's  life.  He  had  just  made  me  his  mate  in 
a  voyage  up  the  Mediterranean,  when  we  had 
the  misfortune  to  be  wrecked  on  the  coast  of 
Morocco.  The  ship  struck  at  some  distance 
from  shore,  and  we  lay  a  long,  stormy  night 
with  the  waves  dashing  over  us,  expecting  every 
moment  to  perish.  My  uncle  and  several  of  the 
crew  died  of  fatigue  and  want,  and  by  morning 
but  four  of  us  were  left  alive.  My  companions 
were  so  disheartened,  that  they  thought  of  noth- 
ing but  submitting  to  their  fate.  For  my  part, 
1  thought  life  still  worth  struggling  for  ;  and  the 
weather  having  become  calmer,  I  persuaded 
them  to  join  me  in  making  a  kind  of  raft,  by 
the  help  of  which,  with  much  toil  and  danger, 
we  reached  the  land.  Here  we  were  seized  by 
H  = 


150      PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    DIFFICULTIES. 

the  barbarous  inhabitants,  and  carried  up  to  the 
country  for  slaves  to  the  emperor.  We  were 
employed  about  some  public  buildings,  made  to 
work  very  hard  with  the  whip  at  our  backs,  and 
allowed  nothing  but  water  and  a  kind  of  pulse. 
I  have  heard  persons  talk  as  if  there  was  little 
in  being  a  slave  but  the  name ;  but  they  who 
have  been  slaves  themselves,  I  am  sure  will 
never  make  light  of  slavery  in  others.  A  ran- 
som was  set  on  our  heads,  but  so  high,  that  it 
seemed  impossible  for  poor  friendless  creatures 
like  us  ever  to  pay  it.  The  thought  of  perpetual 
servitude,  together  with  the  hard  treatment  we 
met  with,  quite  overcame  my  poor  companions. 
They  drooped  and  died,  one  after  another.  I 
still  thought  it  not  impossible  to  mend  my  con- 
dition, and  perhaps  to  recover  my  freedom.  We 
worked  about  twelve  hours  in  the  day,  and  had 
one  holyday  in  the  week.  I  employed  my  leisure 
time  in  learning  to  make  mats  and  flag  baskets, 
in  which  I  soon  became  so  expert  as  to  have  a 
good  many  for  sale,  and  thereby  got  a  little 
money  to  purchase  better  food,  and  several 
small  conveniences.  We  were  afterwards  set 
to  work  in  the  emperor's  gardens ;  and  here  I 
showed  so  much  good  will  and  attention,  that  I 
got  into  favor  with  the   overseer.     He  had  a 


z:^ 


PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    DIFFICULTIES.       151 

large  garden  of  his  own  ;  and  he  made  interest 
for  me  to  be  suffered  to  work  for  him  alone,  on 
the  condition  of  paying  a  man  to  do  my  duty. 
I  soon  became  so  useful  to  him,  that  he  treated 
me  more  like  a  hired  servant  than  a  slave,  and 
gave  me  regular  wages.  I  learned  the  language 
of  the  country,  and  might  have  passed  my  time 
comfortably  enough,  could  I  have  accomodated 
myself  to  their  manners  and  religion,  and  forgot 
my  native  land.  I  saved  all  I  could,  in  order 
to  purchase  my  freedom  ;  but  the  ransom  was 
so  high,  that  I  had  little  prospect  of  being  able 
to  do  it  for  some  years  to  come.  A  circum- 
stance, however,  happened,  which  brought  it 
about  at  once.  Some  villains  one  night  laid  a 
plot  to  murder  my  master  and  plunder  his 
house.  I  slept  in  a  little  shed  in  the  garden 
where  the  tools  lay  ;  and  being  awakened  by  a 
noise,  I  saw  four  men  break  through  the  fence, 
and  walk  up  an  alley  towards  the  house.  I  crept 
out  with  a  spade  in  my  hand,  and  silently  fol- 
lowed them.  They  made  a  hole  with  instru- 
ments in  the  house-wall  big  enough  for  a  man 
to  enter  at.  Two  of  them  had  got  in,  and  the 
third  was  beginning  to  enter,  when  I  rushed 
forward,  and  with  a  blow  of  my  spade  clove  the 
skull  of  one  of  the  robbers,  and  gave  the  other 


-^ 


!     152 


PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    HFFICULTIES. 


sucli  a  stroke  on  the  shoulder  as  disabled  him. 
I  then  made  a  loud  outcry  to  alarm  the  family. 
My  master  and  his  son,  who  lay  in  the  house, 
arose,  and  having  let  me  in,  we  secured  the  two 
others,  after  a  sharp  conflict,  in  which  I  received 
a  severe  wound  with  a  dagger.  My  master,  who 
looked  upon  me  as  his  preserver,  had  all  possi- 
ble care  taken  of  me  ;  and  as  soon  as  I  was 
cured,  made  me  a  present  of  my  liberty.  He 
would  fain  have  kept  me  with  him,  but  my  mind 
was  so  much  bent  on  returning  to  my  native 
country,  that  I  immediately  set  out  to  the  near- 
est sea-port,  and  took  my  passage  in  a  vessel 
going  to  Gibraltar. 

"  From  this  place  I  returned  in  the  first  ship 
for  England.  As  soon  as  we  arrived  in  the 
Downs,  and  I  was  rejoicing  at  the  sight  of  the 
white  cliffs,  a  man-of-war's  boat  came  on  board, 
and  pressed  into  the  king's  service  all  of  us  who 
were  seamen.  I  could  not  but  think  it  hard 
that  this  should  be  my  welcome  at  home,  after 
a  long  slavery  ;  but  there  was  no  remedy.  I 
resolved  to  do  my  duty  in  my  station,  and  leave 
the  rest  to  providence.  I  was  abroad  during 
the  remainder  of  the  war,  and  saw  many  a  stout 
fellow  sink  under  disease  and  despondence.  My 
knowledge  of  seamanship  procured  my  promotion 


PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    DIFFICULTIES.       153 

to  the  post  of  a  petty  officer,  and  at  the  peace, 
I  was  paid  off,  and  received  a  pretty  sum  for 
wages  and  prize-money.  With  this,  I  set  off 
for  London.  I  had  experienced  too  much  dis- 
tress from  want  to  be  inclined  to  squander  away 
my  money,  so  I  put  it  into  a  banker's  hands,  and 
began  to  look  out  for  some  new  way  of  life. 

"  Unfortunately,  there  were  some  things  of 
which  I  had  no  more  experience  than  a  child, 
and  the  tricks  of  London  were  among  these. 
An  advertisement  offering  extraordinary  ad- 
vantages to  a  partner  in  a  commercial  concern, 
who  could  bring;  a  small  capital,  tempted  me  to 
make  inquiry  about  the  matter  ;  and  I  was  soon 
cajoled  by  a  plausible,  artful  fellow,  to  venture 
my  whole  stock  in  it.  .  The  business  was  a  man- 
ufacture, about  which  I  knew  nothing  at  all ; 
but  as  I  was  not  afraid  of  my  labor,  I  set  about 
working  as  they  directed  me,  with  great  dili- 
gence, and  thought  all  was  going  on  prosper- 
ously. One  morning,  on  coming  to  the  office, 
I  found  my  partners  decamped  ;  and  the  same 
day  I  was  arrested  for  a  considerable  sum  due 
by  the  partnership.  It  was  in  vain  for  me  to 
think  of  getting  bail,  so  I  was  obliged  to  go  to 
prison.  Here  I  should  have  been  half  starved 
but  for  my  Moorish  trade  of  mat-making,  by  the 

—  ^ 


154      PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    DIFFICULTIES. 

help  of  which  I  bettered  my  condition  for  some 
months  ;  when  the  creditors,  finding  that  nothing 
could  be  got  out  of  me,  sufiered  me  to  be  set  at 
liberty. 

"  I  was  now  in  the  wide  world  without  a 
farthing  or  a  friend,  but  I  thanked  God  that  I 
had  health  and  limbs  left.  I  did  not  choose  to 
trust  the  sea  again,  but  preferred  my  other  new 
trade  of  gardening  ;  so  I  applied  to  a  nursery- 
man near  town,  and  was  received  as  a  day  la- 
borer. I  set  myself  cheerfully  to  work,  taking 
care  to  be  in  the  grounds  the  first  man  in  the 
morning  and  the  last  at  night.  I  acquainted  my 
employer  with  all  the  practices  I  had  observed 
in  Morocco,  and  got  him,  in  return,  to  instruct 
me  in  his  own.  In  time,  I  came  to  be  considered 
as  a  skilful  workman,  and  was  advanced  to  higher 
wages.  My  afi*airs  were  in  a  flourishing  state. 
I  was  well  fed  and  comfortably  lodged,  and  saved 
money  into  the  bargain.  About  this  time  I  fell 
in  company  with  a  young  v/oman  at  service,  very 
notable  and  well  behaved,  who  seemed  well 
qualified  for  a  wife  to  a  working  man.  I  ven- 
tured to  make  an  offer  to  her,  which  proved  not 
disagreeable  ;  and  after  we  had  calculated  a 
little  how  we  were  to  live,  we  married.  I  took 
a  cottage  with  an  acre  or  two  of  land  to  it,  and 


I  nt'— 


lr= 


PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    DIFFICULTIES.       155 

my  wife's  savings  furnished  our  house  and  bought 
a  cow.  All  my  leisure  time  I  spent  upon  my 
piece  of  ground,  which  I  made  very  productive  ; 
and  the  profits  of  my  cow,  with  my  wages,  sup- 
ported us  very  well.  No  mortal,  I  think,  could 
be  happier  than  I  was  after  a  hard  day's  work, 
by  my  own  fireside,  with  my  wife  beside  me,  and 
our  little  infant  on  my  knee. 

"  After  this  way  of  life  had  lasted  two  or  three 
years,  a  gentleman  who  had  dealt  largely  with 
my  master  for  young  plants,  asked  him  if  he 
could  recommend  an  honest,  industrious  man 
for  a  tenant,  upon  some  land  that  he  had  lately 
taken  in  from  the  sea.  My  master,  willing  to 
do  me  a  kindness,  mentioned  me.  I  was  tempted 
by  the  proposal,  and  going  down  to  view  the 
premises,  I  took  a  farm  upon  a  lease  at  a  low 
rent,  and  removed  my  family  and  goods  to  it, 
one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  from  London. 
There  was  ground  enough  for  money,  but  much 
was  left  to  be  done  for  it  in  draining,  manuring, 
and  fencing.  Then  it  required  more  stock  than 
I  was  able  to  furnish  ;  so,  though  unwilling,  I 
was  obliged  to  borrow  some  money  of  my  land- 
lord, who  let  me  have  it  at  moderate  interest. 
I  began  with  good  heart,  and  worked  late  and 
early  to  put  things  in  the  best  condition.     My 


§r= 


156       PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    DIFFICULTIES. 

first  misfortune  was,  that  the  place  proved  un- 
healthy to  us.  I  fell  into  a  lingering  ague, 
which  reduced  my  strength,  and  hindered  my 
business.  My  wife  took  a  slow  fever,  and  so  did 
our  eldest  child.  The  poor  child  died  ;  and 
grief  for  this  event  increased  my  wife's  illness. 
Then  the  rot  got  among  my  sheep,  and  carried 
ofi"  the  best  part  of  my  flock.  I  bore  up  against 
distress  as  well  as  I  could  ;  and,  by  the  kindness 
of  my  landlord,  was  enabled  to  bring  things  tol- 
erably about  again.  We  regained  our  health, 
and  began  to  be  seasoned  to  the  climate.  As 
we  were  cheering  ourselves  with  the  prospect  of 
better  times,  a  dreadful  storm  arose — it  was  one 
night  in  February  ;  I  shall  never  forget  it — and 
drove  the  spring  tide  with  such  fury  against  our 
sea-banks,  that  they  gave  way.  The  water 
rushed  in  with  such  force,  that  all  was  presently 
a  sea.  Two  hours  before  daylight,  I  was  awak- 
ened by  the  noise  of  the  waves  dashing  against 
our  house,  and  bursting  in  at  the  door.  We 
had  just  time  to  carry  the  children  up  stairs, 
before  all  was  afloat  in  the  room.  When  day 
appeared,  we  could  see  nothing  from  the  windows 
but  water.  All  the  out-houses,  ricks,  and  uten- 
sils were  swept  away,  and  all  the  cattle  and  sheep 
drowned.     The  sea  kept  rising,  and  the  force  of 


PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    DIFFICULTIES.       157 

the  current  bore  so  hard  against  our  house,  that 
we  thought  every  moment  it  must  fall.  We 
clasped  our  babes  to  our  breasts,  and  expected 
nothing  but  present  death.  At  length,  we  es- 
pied a  boat  coming  to  us.  With  a  good  deal  of 
difficulty,  it  got  under  our  window,  and  took  us 
in,  with  a  servant  maid  and  boy.  A  few  clothes 
was  all  the  property  we  saved  ;  and  we  had  not 
left  the  house  half  an  hour  before  it  fell,  and  in 
a  minute  nothing  was  to  be  seen  of  it.  Not 
only  the  farm-house,  but  the  farm  itself  was 
gone. 

"  I  was  now  again  a  ruined  man,  and  what 
was  worst,  I  had  three  partners  in  my  ruin.  My 
wife  and  I  looked  at  one  another,  and  then  at 
our  little  ones,  and  wept.  Neither  of  us  had  a 
word  of  comfort  to  say.  At  last  thought  I,  this 
country  is  not  Morocco,  however.  Here  are 
good  souls  that  will  pity  our  case,  and  perhaps 
relieve  tls.  Then  I  have  a  character,  and  a  pair 
of  hands.  Things  are  bad,  but  they  might  have 
been  worse.  I  took  my  wife  by  the  hand  and 
knelt  down.  She  did  the  same.  I  thanked 
God  for  his  mercy  in  saving  our  lives,  and 
prayed  that  he  would  continue  to  protect  us. 
We  rose  up  with  lightened  hearts,  and  were 
able  to  talk  calmly  about   our  condition.     It 


158       PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    DIFFICULTIES. 

was  my  desire  to  return  to  my  former  master, 
the  nursery-man  ;  but  how  to  convey  my  family 
so  far  without  money  was  the  difficulty.  Indeed, 
I  was  much  worse  than  nothing,  for  I  owed  a 
good  deal  to  my  landlord.  He  came  down  upon 
the  news  of  the  misfortune,  and  though  his  own 
losses  were  heavy,  he  not  only  forgave  my  debt 
and  released  me  from  all  obligations,  but  made 
me  a  small  present.  Some  charitable  neighbors 
did  the  same  ;  but  I  was  most  of  all  affected  by 
the  kindness  of  our  late  maid-servant,  who  in- 
sisted upon  our  accepting  of  a  crown  which  she 
had  saved  out  of  her  wages.  Poor  girl  !  we  had 
always  treated  her  like  one  of  ourselves,  and  she 
felt  for  us  like  one. 

''  As  soon  as  we  had  got  some  necessaries, 
and  the  weather  was  tolerable,  we  set  out  on 
our  long  march.  My  wife  carried  her  infant  in 
her  arms.  I  took  the  older  child  upon  my  back, 
and  a  bundle  of  clothes  in  my  hand.  We  could 
walk  but  a  few  miles  a-day,  but  we  now  and  then 
got  a  lift  in  an  empty  wagon  or  cart,  which  was 
a  great  help  to  us.  One  day  we  met  with  a 
farmer  returning  with  his  team  from  market, 
who  let  us  ride,  and  entered  into  conversation 
with  rae.  I  told  him  my  adventures,  by  which 
he  seemed  much  interested  ;  and  learning  that 


^  — % 

PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    DIFFICULTIES.       159 

I  was  skilled  in  managing  trees,  he  acquainted 
me  that  a  nobleman  in  his  neighborhood  was 
making  great  plantations,  and  would  very  likely 
be  glad  to  engage  me  ;  and  he  offered  to  carry 
us  to  the  place.  As  all  I  was  seeking  was  a 
living  by  my  labor,  I  thought  the  sooner  I  got 
it,  the  better ;  so,  I  thankfully  accepted  his 
offer.  He  took  us  to  the  nobleman's  steward, 
and  made  known  our  case.  The  steward  wrote 
to  my  old  master  for  a  character  ;  and  receiving 
a  favorable  one,  he  hired  me  as  a  principal 
manager  of  a  new  plantation,  and  settled  me 
and  my  family  in  a  snug  cottage  near  it.  He 
advanced  us  somewhat  for  a  little  furniture  and 
present  subsistence  ;  and  we  had  once  more  a 
hoTM.  0,  sir,  how  many  blessings  are  contained 
in  that  word  to  those  who  have  known  the  want 
of  it! 

"  I  entered  upon  my  new  employment  with  as 
much  satisfaction  as  if  I  was  taking  possession 
of  an  estate.  My  wife  had  enough  to  do  in 
taking  care  of  the  house  and  children  ;  so  it  lay 
with  me  to  provide  for  all,  and  I  may  say  that 
I  was  not  idle.  Besides  my  weekly  pay  from 
the  steward,  I  contrived  to  make  a  little  money 
at  leisure  times  by  pruning  and  dressing  gentle- 
men's fruit-trees.     I  was  allowed  a  piece   of 


160       PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    DIFFICULTIES. 

waste  ground  behind  the  house  for  a  garden, 
and  I  spent  a  good  deal  of  labor  in  bringing  it 
into  order.  My  old  master  sent  me  down  a 
present,  some  choice  young  trees  and  flower 
roots,  which  I  planted,  and  they  throve  wonder- 
fully. Things  went  oji  almost  as  I  could  desire. 
The  situation  being  dry  and  healthy,  my  wife 
recovered  her  lost  bloom,  and  the  children 
sprung  up  like  my  plants.  I  began  to  hope 
that  I  was  almost  out  of  further  misfortune  ; 
but  it  was  not  so  ordered. 

"  I  had  been  three  years  in  this  situation, 
when  my  lord  died.  He  was  succeeded  by  a 
very  dissipated  young  man,  deep  in  debt,  who 
presently  put  a  stop  to  the  planting  and  improv- 
ing of  the  estate,  and  sent  orders  to  turn  off  all 
the  workmen.  This  was  a  great  blow  to  me  ; 
however,  I  still  hoped  to  be  allowed  to  keep  my 
little  house  and  garden,  and  I  thought  I  could 
then  maintain  myself  as  a  nursery-man  and 
gardener.  But  a  new  steward  was  sent  down, 
with  directions  to  rack  the  tenants  to  the  ut- 
most. He  asked  me  as  much  rent  for  the  place 
as  if  I  had  found  the  garden  ready  made  to  my 
hands ;  and  when  I  told  him  it  was  impossible 
for  me  to  pay  it,  he  gave  me  notice  to  quit  im- 
mediately.    He  would  neither  suffer  me  to  take 


PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    DIFFICULTIES.       161 

away  my  trees  and  plants,  nor  allow  me  anything 
for  them.  His  view,  I  found,  was  to  put  in  a 
favorite  of  his  own,  and  set  him  up  at  my  ex- 
pense. I  remonstrated  against  this  cruel  in- 
justice, but  could  obtain  nothing  but  hard  words. 
As  I  saw  it  would  be  the  ruin  of  me  to  be  turned 
out  in  that  manner,  I  determined,  rather  hastily, 
to  go  up  to  London,  and  plead  my  cause  with 
my  new  lord.  I  took  a  sorrowful  leave  of  my 
family,  and  walking  to  the  next  market  town,  I 
got  a  place  on  the  outside  of  the  stage-coach. 
When  we  were  within  thirty  or  forty  miles  of 
London,  the  coachman  overturned  the  carriage, 
and  I  pitched  directly  on  my  head,  and  was 
taken  up  senseless.  Nobody  knew  anything 
about  me  ;  so  I  was  carried  to  the  next  village, 
where  the  overseer  had  me  taken  to  the  parish 
workhouse.  Here  I  lay  a  fortnight,  much  neg- 
lected, before  I  came  to  my  senses.  As  soon  as 
I  became  sensible  of  my  condition,  I  was  almost 
distracted  in  thinking  of  the  distress  my  poor 
wife  must  be  under  on  my  account,  not  hearing 
anything  of  me.  I  lay  another  fortnight  before 
I  was  fit  to  travel,  for,  besides  the  hurt  on  my 
head,  I  had  a  broken  collar-bone,  and  several 
bruises.  My  money  had  somehow  all  got  out 
of  my  pocket,  and  I  had  no  other  means  of 


%= 


162      PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    DIFFICULTIES. 

getting  away  than  by  being  passed  to  my  own 
parish.  I  returned  in  sad  plight  indeed,  and 
found  my  wife  very  ill  in  bed.  My  children 
were  crying  about  her,  and  almost  starving. 
We  should  now  have  been  quite  lost,  had  I  not 
raised  a  little  money  by  selling  our  furniture  ; 
for  I  was  yet  unable  to  work.  As  soon  as  my 
wife  was  somewhat  recovered,  we  were  forced  to 
quit  our  house.  I  cried  like  a  child  on  leaving 
my  blooming  garden  and  flourishing  plantations, 
and  was  almost  tempted  to  demolish  them,  rather 
than  another  should  unjustly  reap  the  fruit  of 
my  labors.  But  I  checked  myself,  and  I  am 
glad  I  did.  We  took  lodgings  in  a  neighboring 
village,  and  I  went  round  among  the  gentlemen 
of  the  country  to  see  if  I  could  get  a  little  emr 
ployment.  In  the  meantime,  the  former  steward 
came  down  to  settle  accounts  with  his  successor, 
and  was  much  concerned  to  find  me  in  such  a 
situation.  He  was  a  very  able  and  honest  man, 
and  had  been  engaged  by  another  nobleman  to 
superintend  a  large  improvable  estate  in  a  dis- 
tant part  of  the  kingdom.  He  told  me,  if  I 
would  try  my  fortune  with  him  once  more,  he 
would  endeavor  to  procure  me  a  new  settlement. 
I  had  nothing  to  lose,  and  therefore  was  willing 
enough  to  run  any  hazard  ;  but  I  was  destitute 


PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    DIFFICULTIES.       163 

of  means  to  convey  my  family  to  such  a  distance. 
My  good  friend,  who  was  much  provoked  at  the 
injustice  of  the  new  steward,  said  so  much  to 
him,  that  he  brought  him  to  make  me  an  allow- 
ance for  my  garden  ;  and  with  that  I  was  enabled 
to  make  another  removal.  It  was  to  the  place 
I  now  inhabit. 

^'  When  I  came  here,  sir,  all  tlys  farm  was  a 
naked  common,  like  that  you  crossed  in  coming. 
My  lord  got  an  inclosure  bill  for  his  part  of  it, 
and  the  steward  divided  it  into  different  farms, 
and  let  it  on  improving  leases  to  several  tenants. 
A  dreary  spot,  to  be  sure,  it  looked  at  first, 
enough  to  sink  a  man's  heart  to  sit  down  upon 
it!  I  had  a  little  unfinished  cottage  given  me 
to  live  in,  and  as  I  had  nothing  to  stock  a  farm, 
I  was  for  some  years  employed  as  head  laborer 
and  planter  about  the  new  inclosures.  By  very 
hard  working  and  saving,  together  with  a  little 
help,  I  was  at  length  enabled  to  take  a  small 
part  of  the  ground  I  now  occupy.  I  had  various 
discouragements,  from  bad  seasons  and  other 
accidents.  One  year  the  distemper  carried  off 
four  out  of  seven  cows  that  I  kept ;  another 
year  I  lost  two  of  my  best  horses.  A  high  wind 
once  almost  entirely  destroyed  an  orchard  I  had 
just  planted,  and  blew  down  my  biggest  barn. 


164      PERSEVERANCE    AGAINST    DIFFICULTIES. 

But  I  was  too  mucli  used  to  misfortunes  to  be 
easily  disheartened,  and  my  way  always  was  to 
set  about  repairing  them  in  the  best  manner  I 
could,  and  leave  the  rest  to  Heaven.  This 
method  seems  to  have  answered  at  last.  I 
have  now  gone  on  many  years  in  a  course  of 
continued  prosperity,  adding  field  to  field,  in- 
creasing my  stock,  and  bringing  up  a  numerous 
family  with  credit.  My  dear  wife,  who  was  my 
faithful  partner  through  so  much  distress,  con- 
tinues to  share  my  prosperous  state  :  and  few 
couples  in  the  kingdom,  I  believe,  have  more 
cause  to  be  thankful  for  their  lot.  This,  sir,  is 
my  history.  You  see  it  contains  nothing  very 
extraordinary ;  but  if  it  impresses  on  the  mind 
of  this  young  gentleman  the  maxim,  that  pa- 
tience and  perseverance  will  scarcely  fail  of  a 
good  issue,  the  time  you  have  spent  in  listening 
to  it  will  not  be  entirely  lost." 

Mr.  Carle  ton  thanked  the  good  farmer  very 
heartily  for  the  instruction  and  amusement  he 
had  afforded  them,  and  took  leave  with  many 
expressions  of  regard.  Theodore  and  he  walked 
home,  talking  by  the  way  of  what  they  had 
heard. 

Next  morning,  Mr.  Oarleton,  looking  out  of 
the  window,  saw  Theodore  hard  at  his  work  in  the 


^-  — 

THE    FADING    LEAVES  165 

garden.  He  was  carefully  disinterring  his  buried 
flowers,  trimming  and  cleaning  them,  and  plant- 
ing them  anew.  He  had  got  the  gardener  to 
cut  a  slip  of  the  broken  rose  tree,  and  set  it  in 
the  middle,  to  give  it  a  chance  for  growing. 
By  noon,  everything  was  laid  smooth  and  neat, 
and  the  bed  was  well  filled.  All  its  splendor, 
indeed,  was  gone  for  the  present,  but  it  seemed 
in  a  hopeful  way  to  revive  again.  Theodore 
looked  with  pleasure  over  his  work  ;  but  his 
father  felt  more  pleasure  in  witnessing  the  first 
fruits  of  farmer  Hardman's  story. 


THE    FADINa    LEAVES. 

BY     MARY     HEMPIiE. 

A  YoujvG  child  stood  in  a  shadowy  wood, 

And  her  eyes  were  dim  with  tears, 
And  a  shade  was  resting  sadly  there, 

Too  deep  for  her  tender  years  : 
Yet  she  knew  not  why — she  knew  not  why. 

For  her  heart  like  a  happy  bird, 
Came  quickly — ^joyously  leaping  up. 

Whenever  the  boughs  were  stir'd. 


166  THE    FADING    LEAVES. 

The  sky  was  clear,  but  the  leaves  were  sere, 

And  the  young  child  watched  them  fall, 
And  she  saw  how  the  tallest,  proudest  trees. 

Were  stripped  the  first  of  all : 
Then,  with  lips  apart,  to  her  own  pure  heart. 

She  said  what  their  fading  taught. 
For  even  the  leaves  in  the  silent  woods. 

Are  all  with  lessons  fraught. 

"  I  am  fair  and  young — ^I  am  gay  and  strong, 

But  so  was  this  noble  tree. 
Yet  the  breath  of  winter  has  withered  that. 

And  vv^inter  may  come  to  me  : 
But  my  Father,  who  gave  to  the  tree  its  bloom. 

And  covers  the  daisied  sod  ; 
Will  bring  back  Spring — for  them — for  me. 

If  I  love  and  worship  God." 

Oh !  even  a  child  may  read  aright 

The  pages  open'd  there  ; 
For  the  spirit  of  love — that  dwells  in  light. 

Is  reigning  everywhere. 


r^ 


Harry's  dinner.  167 


HARRY'S    DINNER. 

Robert  Bowen  was  a  day-laborer.  When 
he  married  his  tidy  wife,  Mary,  he  took  her  to  a 
small  cottage,  just  out  of  the  village  of  Somer- 
field.  Although  there  were  but  two  rooms  in 
the  house,  there  was  always  a  neat,  cheerful  air 
within  ;  and  many  a  passing  traveller  long  re- 
membered the  cup  of  cold  water  and  the  nice 
home-made  bread  given  him  by  the  pretty  mis- 
tress of  the  wayside  cottage.  The  grass  plat, 
in  front,  enclosed  a  cluster  of  carefully-chosen 
flowering  plants,  which  were  never  without  a 
bright  blossom  to  wave  at  the  passers-by. 

"  It  is  hard  parting  with  this  snug  place," 
said  Robert  Bowen  to  his  wife.  "  There's  not 
a  prettier  spot  for  miles  round.  Five  happy 
years  we've  passed  here,  not  to  leave  out  the 
time  when  the  boy  and  I  were  lying,  side  by 
side,  with  the  fever.  I  never  knew  what  you 
were  worth,  Mary,  till  the  strength  all  left  my 
bones,  and  I  lay,  like  an  infant,  in  the  bed. 
And  the  boy,  too :  where  would  he  have  been 


168  Harry's  dinner. 

but  for  your  nursing  ?  ^^ut  for  that  unlucky 
fever,  we  should  not  be  turned  out  of  house 
and  home.  And  a  shame  it  is  for  honest  people, 
like  ourselves,  to  be  turned  out,  for  a  trifle  of 
rent,  and  that,  the  first  time  we've  been  behind- 
hand in  five  years." 

"  Fie,  Robert,"  said  Mary,  ^'  look  at  the  boy, 
and  be  thankful.  My  heart  would  be  fit  to 
break  if  he  was  under  the  cold  ground  ;  but, 
with  his  rosy  face  to  look  at,  and  your  strong 
arm  to  bear  upon,  it's  little  to  me  where  I  go. 
With  God's  sky  over  us,  we  sha'n't  want  for  a 
roof  to  cover  us.  Cheer  up,  Robert ;  don't  let 
the  boy  see  you  down-hearted.  Think  of  the 
time  when  we  thought  to  lose  him,  and  this  will 
seem  a  bright  day  to  you." 

Thus  they  talked  together,  as  they  packed 
their  scanty  supply  of  furniture  upon  a  cart  that 
was  to  bear  them  away.  One  by  one,  the 
heavier  articles  were  brought  out,  each  causing 
a  train  of  associations.  Some  had  been  given 
Mary  by  the  lady  with  whom  she  was  at  service 
before  her  marriage,  but  the  greater  part  had 
been  added,  from  time  to  time,  to  the  little 
store,  from  their  united  savings. 

Harry,  the  little  boy,  did  not  see  anything 
sad  in  the   change  they  were   about  to  make. 
%  = 


Harry's  dinner  169 

He  ran,  backwards  and  forwards,  with  great 
glee,  carrying  such  moveables  as  his  strength 
would  permit.  Occasionally,  when  his  parents 
seemed  to  lift  a  load  with  difficulty,  he  would 
take  hold  with  his  dimpled  hands,  and  bend  his 
fat  shoulder  to  the  work  as  earnestly  as  if  he 
really  were  of  great  assistance. 

The  once  cheerful  home  soon  looked  bare  and 
desolate,  and  the  empty  house  gave  back  a  sad 
echo,  as  Eobert  turned,  for  the  last  time,  the 
familiar  key. 

Harry  pulled  a  nosegay  from  the  spring  flowers 
that  adorned  the  yard,  and  then  was  perched  on 
the  bed  that  surmounted  the  furniture,  and  there 
he  rode,  with  as  much  satisfaction  as  if  he  had 
been  in  a  golden  coach. 

Robert  and  Mary  walked  slowly  at  his  side, 
thinking  sadly  of  the  future.  They  were  going 
to  Robert's  father's  house.  The  old  man  had 
kindly  urged  them  to  stay  with  him  until  they 
could  find  some  new  and  less  expensive  home 
than  that  they  were  forced  to  leave.  But  he  was 
poor,  like  themselves,  and  they  shrank  from  re- 
ceiving assistance  from  one  who  had  so  little  to 
spare. 

Ten  weary  miles  were  before  them.  Almost 
in  silence  they  moved  along,  till,  way-worn  and 
k  -  -  -^ 


170 


HARRY'S    DINNER. 


dusty,  they  sat  down,  at  noon,  to  rest.  Harry 
was  taken  from  his  high  seat,  and  the  little  group 
gathered  under  the  shade  of  a  low  tree,  to  take 
their  simple  luncheon. 

"  Thank  God !  we  have  bread  to  eat,"  said 
Mary,  as  she  drew  out  a  nice  loaf  from  the  clean 
basket  on  her  arm.  Robert  had  little  appetite, 
but  Harry  soon  dispatched  a  generous  slice,  and 
was  holding  the  loaf  towards  his  mother,  with  a 
request  for  "  more,"  when  a  stranger  drew  near 
to  them.  He  was  a  sportsman,  as  the  gun  over 
his  shoulder  and  the  half-filled  game-bag  plainly 
told.  His  rapid  footsteps  soon  brought  him  to 
their  side. 

The  new-comer  had  a  round,  cheerful  count- 
enance, and,  flushed  and  animated  as  it  now  was, 
by  recent  exercise,  he  certainly  seemed  anything 
but  repulsive.  Yet,  as  they  looked  at  him, 
Robert  turned  away  his  head,  and  Mary's  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  Not  so  Harry ;  he  longed  to 
make  acquaintance  with  the  pleasant-looking 
gentleman,  and  have  a  nearer  view  of  the  gay- 
plumaged  birds  in  the  game-bag.  The  loaf  was 
yet  in  his  hand,  and,  with  artless  politeness,  he 
asked  the  sportsman  to  take  some  of  his  dinner. 

The  stranger  was  hungry.  He  accepted  the 
offer,  and  ate  the  simple  fare  with  a  keen  relish. 


%^ 


Harry's  dinner.  171 

"  Now,  who  are  you,  my  little  man  ?"  said 
he,  when  he  had  finished,  "  and  what  brought 
you  here  to  take  your  dinner  ?" 

"  My  name  is  Harry  Bowen,"  answered  the 
boy. 

The  name — the  furniture  cart — the  dejected 
couple — were  enough  to  tell  the  story.  A  look 
of  real  sorrow  passed  over  the  sportsman's  face. 
Extending  his  hand  to  Kobert,  he  said,  "  I  am 
sorry  for  you,  my  poor  fellow  ;  this  is  all  owing 
to  my  foolish  eagerness  for  sport.  Can  you  for- 
give your  selfish  landlord  .?" 

Robert  grasped  the  hand  that  was  extended 
to  him,  and  listened  eagerly  to  the  words  that 
followed. 

"  I  was  up  before  light  this  morning  to  have 
a  good  day's  hunt ;  just  as  I  was  all  ready 
to  start,  that  scamp  of  an  agent  came  to  me 
with  a  long  story  about  the  laborers  on  my  es- 
tate, and  asked  my  permission  to  turn  every  one 
out  who  refused  to  pay  his  rent.  In  my  hurry 
to  be  gone,  thoughtless  fellow  that  I  was,  I  said, 
'  Anything,  anything  you  please,  only  let  me  be 
gone  ;'  and  hastened  away  from  him.  Your 
little  boy,  here,  has  taught  me  a  lesson ;  he 
has  not  shared  his  dinner  with  me  in  vain. 
Right  good  bread  it  was,  and  he  shall  share 


=5^ 


172  Harry's  dinner. 

some  of  my  abundance  in  return.  My  little 
friend  shall  have  his  home,  rent-free,  this  year, 
for  giving  a  hungry  man  such  a  nice  luncheon. 
Come,  right  about  face,  and  go  back  to  the 
cottage  ;  I  can't  lose  such  tidy  tenants.  I  shall 
look  in  on  you  as  I  go  home,  and  shall  not  sleep 
a  wink  unless  I  find  you  as  snug  as  if  nothing 
had  happened." 

Before  the  astonished  group  had  time  to  thank 
the  repentant  landlord,  he  had  whistled  to  his 
dogs  and  disappeared. 

Harry  had  looked  on  in  wondering  silence, 
while  the  conversation  took  place,  but  now 
seeing  his  father  all  bright  with  new  hope  and 
his  mother  smiling  through  her  tears,  he  capered 
about  in  high  spirits,  and  when  again  mounted 
on  the  moving  furniture,  he  sang  snatches  from 
"  Mother  Groose,"  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  until 
lulled  by  the  slow  motion  of  the  cart  and  over- 
come with  weariness,  he  fell  asleep  on  the  bed 
like  a  tired  kitten  on  a  cushion. 

How  prettily  the  little  cottage  looked  to 
Robert  and  Mary,  as  they  paused  at  the  gate. 
The  perfume  of  the  flowers  seemed  to  give  them 
welcome,  and  the  old  house  cat,  who  could  not 
be  persuaded  to  leave  the  spot,  came  purring  to 
meet  them. 


^ii§ 


Harry's  dinner.  173 

With  right  good  will  each  article  of  furniture 
was  put  in  its  accustomed  place.  The  bright 
pans  again  shone  from  the  walls,  and  the  old 
clock  ticked  upon  the  mantle-piece. 

The  happy  party  ceased  not  from  their  pleas- 
ant labor,  until  all  was  again  tidy  and  cheerful 
in  their  beloved  home. 

With  twilight  came  the  landlord,  weary  with 
the  day's  chase,  and  chilled  with  the  falling  dews. 
A  bright  fire  was  upon  the  hearth,  and  the  tea 
kettle  sung  merrily  of  the  approaching  meal, 
and  an  unusual  meal  it  was  in  that  humble 
cottage  ;  for  he  insisted  upon  supping  with  them 
upon  the  result  of  his  sport.  He  watched 
Mary's  skilful  cookery,  now  and  then  suggesting 
an  improvement,  or  lending  a  hand  to  better  the 
fire,  and  when  all  was  at  length  prepared  he  sat 
at  their  rustic  table  with  so  easy  a  grace  that 
they  almost  forgot  that  he  was  not  their  equal. 

He  led  them  to  speak  of  their  hopes  and 
wishes,  and  as  their  honest  hearts  were  laid 
open  to  him,  he  felt  that  they  had  in  their 
sterling  virtue  a  treasure  better  than  all  his 
riches. 

That  day  was  a  blessing  to  the  landlord  and 
all  who  were  connected  with  him  ;  he  resolved 
to  know  more  of  his  tenantry,  and  to  be  himself 
%  .  — 


% 

174  EARLY    PIETY. 

their  example.  Many  a  laborer  profited  by 
Harry's  parted  bread.  Not  that  the  sportsman 
forgot  to  hunt — but  he  no  longer  allowed  his 
favorite  amusement  to  interfere  with  his  duties ; 
and  often  the  sick  cottager  made  a  dainty  supper 
on  the  game  left  by  the  landlord,  when  returning 
from  a  successful  chase. 


EARLY     PIETY. 


BY    MISS    C.    W.    BARBER. 


Mrs.  Emerson  stood  one  bright  Sabbath  morn- 
ing in  June,  at  the  door  of  her  nice  little  cottage, 
with  her  two  children,  John  and  Dorcas,  one 
upon  either  side.  The  children  were  dressed, 
ready  for  the  Sabbath  School,  in  the  neighboring 
town,  and  the  carriage  was  waiting  for  them  at 
the  garden  gate,  but  they  lingered  for  a  few 
moments  upon  the  threshold,  to  repeat  their 
lessons  to  their  mother,  and  listen  to  her  ex- 
planations, so  that  they  might  be  fully  prepared 
for  their  respective  classes.  Dorcas'  lesson,  es- 
pecially, was  one  of  much  interest,  and  her  sweet 


^  % 

EARLY    PIETY.  175 

little  face  grew  very  serious,  as  she  repeated 
those  comforting  words,  uttered  by  the  Saviour 
to  his  disciples,  just  before  his  crucifixion : 
"  Let  not  your  hearts  be  troubled ;  ye  believe 
m  Grod,  believe  also  in  me.  In  my  Father's 
house  there  are  many  mansions  ;  if  it  were  not 
so,  I  would  have  told  you.  I  go  to  prepare  a 
place  for  you,  that  where  I  am,  there  ye  may 
be  also."  When  she  came  to  the  last  words 
she  said : 

"  Is  not  that  very  comforting,  mamma  ? 
How  good  the  Saviour  was  to  come  down,  and 
suffer  so  muck  for  us  ;  how  good  to  be  crucified 
for  our  sins,  and  then  to  go  and  prepare  beauti- 
ful places  for  us  in  Grod's  house,  in  Heaven  ; 
Isn't  it  very  comforting,  mamma  .^"  * 

"  It  is  indeed,  my  daughter,"  said  Mrs.  Em- 
erson, tenderly — "  no  human  mind  can  think  for 
a  moment,  of  the  scheme  of  salvation,  devised 
and  wrought  out  by  the  Saviour,  without  being 
affected,  it  would  seem,  by  his  goodness  and 
love,  and  yet  many,  my  dear  children,  instead 
of  loving  this  precious  Saviour,  and  obeying  his 
commands,  revile  his  name,  and  "  open  his 
wounds  afresh."  But  I  hear  the  bell  ringing, 
and  you  must  go  now.  Be  sure  to  call  for  little 
Sammy  Baker  and  Susan  Strong,  on  your  way 


%=: 


176  EARLY    PIETY. 

to  the  chapel,  and  don't  forget  to  ask  how  old 
Mrs.  Stone,  the  crippled  lady,  does  to-day." 
John  and  Dorcas  promised  to  do  all  this,  and 
then  kissing  their  dear  mother,  started  upon 
their  short  journey. 

Mrs.  Emerson  stood,  and  looked  after  them, 
until  the  carriage  was  out  of  sight.  She  was  a 
good  and  wise  mother— one  who,  like  the  apostle 
of  old,  desired  above  all  things, ''  to  see  her  chil- 
dren walking  in  the  truth."  Some  little  boys 
and  girls  imagine  that  they  cannot  become  ckris- 
tians  until  they  are  grown.  They  think  that 
piety  is  something  that  is  not  expected  in  chil- 
dren, but  the  Saviour  expects  and  desires  that 
even  little  children,  should  enter  his  fold,  and 
b§x3ome  his  lambs.  ''  Those  that  seek  me  early 
shall  find  me,"  says  the  Bible.  Ay,  and  in 
finding  Grod,  my  dear  little  friends,  you  find 
peace  and  happiness,  so  precious  that  gold  can- 
not buy  it.  Will  you  not  then,  like  little  Dorcas 
and  John  Emerson,  early  seek  an  interest  in  the 
dear  Redeemer } 

The  children  found  little  Sammy  Baker  and 
Susan  Strong  all  ready  to  go  with  them  to  the 
Sabbath  School.  It  was  a  cheerful  sight  to  see 
them  on  their  way,  chatting  pleasantly  to  each 
other,  of  their  lessons  and  their  teachers*  Sammy 


EARLY    PIETY.  177 

< 

and  Susan  were  both  orphans,  but  they  lived 
with  a  kind,  christian  lady,  who  had  adopted 
them  and  treated  them  as  tenderly  as  an  own 
mother  would  have  done.  She  early  taught 
them  to  love  their  Bibles  and  their  Sabbath 
School — to  fear  to  sin,  because  Grod's  eye  was 
ever  upon  them.  We  should  like  very  much  to 
accompany  our  little  Sabbath  School  scholars  to 
the  church,  and  listen  to  their  recitations,  but 
that  would  make  our  story  too  long,  so  we  will 
hasten  on,  and  see  how  bright  and  beautiful 
early  piety ^  can  make  that  gloomiest  of  all  paths 
— the  one  leading  to  the  grave. 

Sammy  Baker  was  a  delicate,  sickly  boy,  and 
had  been  so  all  his  life.  He  could  not  join  his 
companions  in  their  wild,  rude  plays,  because 
such  exercise  made  him  sick,  but  nevertheless 
he  was  so  lovely  and  gentle  in  his  disposition, 
that  even  the  most  boisterous  loved  him.  In 
the  week  succeeding  the  Sabbath  in  which  our 
young  friends  went  to  Sunday  School  together, 
Mrs.  Emerson  was  pained  by  the  intelligence 
that  little  Sammy  was  very  sick,  and  that  the 
physician  feared  he  would  die.  She  instantly 
resolved  that  she  would  visit  him,  and  as  Dorcas 
and  John  much  wished  to  accompany  her,  she 
suffered  them  to  do  so. 


178  EARLY    PIETY. 


They  found,  on  their  arrival  at  Sammy's  bed- 
side, that  he  was  dying.  His  little  face  was  as 
white  as  that  of  a  corpse  ;  his  breath  came  slowly, 
accompanied  by  a  groan,  and  the  blood  was 
growing  purple  and  settling  beneath  his  nails. 
His  eyes  alone  looked  natural ;  in  them  slept 
the  same  soft,  sweet,  patient  expression,  which 
had  marked  his  hours  of  health. 

John  and  Dorcas  had  never  before  seen  any- 
body die,  and  their  little  play-mate  was  so  ghastly 
and  pale,  that  they  at  first  shrunk  back,  and 
feared  to  approach  him,  but  their  mother  went 
close  up  to  him,  and  pressed  her  hand  upon  his 
clammy  forehead,  and  felt  his  fluttering  pulse. 
Her  example  inspired  them  with  courage,  and 
finally  they  too  approached  him. 

Although  little  Sammy  was  so  far  gone,  he 
was  still  sensible  of  everything  that  occurred 
around  him.  When  Susan  wept,  as  if  her  heart 
would  break,  he  called  her  to  him,  and  told  her 
that  he  was  not  afraid  to  die^  for  the  Saviour 
was  with  him^  and  was  making  his  dying  couch 

"  Feel  soft  as  downy  pillars  are." 

He  spoke  also  to  John  and  Dorcas,  of  God,  and 
the  beautiful  place  which  He  has  prepared  for 


=^ 


EARLY    PIETY.  179 


those  who  love  Him.  He  exhorted  them  above 
all  things,  to  fear  to  sin,  and  serve  the  Saviour 
with  all  their  heart,  now  in  the  morning  of  their 
lives.  He  desired  Susan  to  bring  to  him  his 
little  chest  of  books,  and  when  he  had  received 
it,  he  drew  with  his  stiffeninor  finojers  several 
small  volumes  out  and  gave  them  to  his  little 
companions.  He  then  desired  them  all  to  sing 
for  him,  some  sweet  hymns,  and  while  listening 
to  the  melody,  "  fell  asleep  in  Christ." 

A  beautiful  smile  lingered  upon  his  lips,  even 
after  he  was  dead  ;  a  smile  that  seemed  to  say 
that  the  spirit  was  happy  in  God's  presence. 

That  death-bed  scene,  Dorcas  and  John  never 
forgot.  My  dear  little  readers,  what  Jesus 
Christ  did  for  little  Sammy  upon  his  death-bed, 
he  can  and  will  do  for  you,  if  you  only  serve  him 
in  your  early  youth  as  Sammy  did.  Will  you 
not  then  early  seek  his  smilling  face  .?  Will 
you  not  cling  to  his  cross,  and  hide  yourselves 
as  it  were,  under  the  shadow  of  his  mighty 
throne  } 


} 


^-- 


180  THE    BONNIE    BAIRNS. 


%= 


THE    BONNIE    BAIRNS. 

A.    BALLAD. 

[Some  of  the  old  ballads  are  more  touching  and  beautiful  thau 
anything  written  now-a-days.  The  following  specimen  is  taken 
from  "  Songs  of  Scotland,  ancient  and  modern,  edited  by  Allan 
Cunningham."  It  must  be  understood  that  the  spirits  of  the 
children  are  poetically  represented  as  pleading  for  heavenly 
mercy  in  behalf  of  the  mother  who  slew  them.] 

The  lady  she  walked  in  yon  wild  wood, 

Aneath  the  hollin  tree, 
And  she  was  aware  of  twa  bonnie  Ibairns 

Were  running  at  her  knee. 

The  tane  it  pulled  the  red,  red  rose, 

Wi'  a  hand  as  soft  as  silk ; 
The  other,  it  pulled  the  lily  pale, 

Wi'  a  hand  mair  white  than  milk.* 

"  Now,  why  pull  ye  the  red  rose,  fair  bairns  ? 

And  why  the  white  lily  ?" 
**  0,  we  sue  wi'  them  at  the  seat  of  grace 

For  the  soul  of  thee,  ladye !" 

*  The  rose  and  lily  were  esteemed  as  mystical  emblems  of 
Christianity.  The  reference  in  the  last  verse  "  Take  her  where 
■waters  rin"— to  "  the  fountain  opened  for  sin"— is  very  beautiful. 


THE    BONNIE    BAIRNS.  181 

"  0  bide  wi'  me,  my  twa  bonnie  bairns, 

I'll  cleid  ye  rich  and  fine ; 
And  a'  for  the  blae  berries  of  the  wood— 

Yese  hae  white  bread  and  wine." 

She  heard  a  voice — a  sweet  low  voice 

Say — "  Weans,  ye  tarry  lang  :" — 
She  stretched  her  head  to  the  youngest  bairn — 

**  Kiss  me  before  ye  gang." 

She  sought  to  take  a  lily  hand, 

And  to  kiss  a  rosy  chin  ; 
0,  nought  sae  pure  can  bide  the  touch 

Of  a  hand  red  wet  wi'  sin  ! 

The  stars  were  shooting  to  and  fro — 

And  wild  fire  filled  the  air. 
As  that  lady  followed  thae  bonnie  bairns 

For  three  lang  hours  and  mair. 

**  0  where  dwell  ye — my  ain  sweet  bairns  ? 

I'm  woe  and  weary  grown  !" 
"  0  Lady,  we  live  where  woe  never  is — 

In  a  land  to  flesh  unknown." 

There  came  a  shape  which  seemed  to  her 

Like  a  rainbow  'mang  the  rain 
And  sair  those  sweet  babes  plead  for  her ; 

But  they  plead  and  plead  in  vain  ! 

"  And  0,  and  0,"  said  the  youngest  babe, 

"  My  mother  maun  come  in  !" 
"  And  0,  and  0,"  said  the  eldest  babe, 

"  Wash  her  twa  hands  frae  sin !" 


k^ 


?^== 


182 


THE    SPECTRE    BAT. 


1 


**  And  0,  and  0,"  said  the  youngest  babe, 
*'  She  nursed  me  on  her  knee ;" 

**  And  0,  and  0,"  said  the  eldest  babe, 
*'  She's  a  mither  yet  to  me  !" 

*'  And  0,  and  0,"  said  the  babies  baith, 

**  Take  her  where  waters  rin, 
And  white  as  the  milk  of  her  white  breast. 

Wash  her  twa  hands  frae  sin  !" 


— '>-rcr\/>.rv/\/V-u->^>*. 


%^- 


THE    SPECTEE    BAT. 

A  DIALOGUE  AT  A  MENAGERIE. 
Present. — Father,  Henry,  Ellen  and  Robert. 

Ellen. — Oh,  Robert,  what  an  odd  looking 
creature — like  a  Gruinea  pig  with  wings,  I  de- 
clare. 

Robert. — I  don't  thank  you,  Ellen,  for  think- 
ing that  ugly  thing  looks  like  my  pretty  Gruinea 
pig.     It  don't  a  bit,  Miss — does  it  Harry  } 

Harry. — Well,  Bob — a  sort  of  yes,  and  a  sort 
of  no  !  That  yoke  round  its  neck  don't  look  like 
wings  though,  Nelly. 


=^ 


THE    SPECTRE    BAT.  183 

Robert. — No,  and  it  dont  look  like  a  Guinea 
pig,  it  looks  to  me  more  like  a  little  bear  ! 

JSllen — laughing — Ha  !  ha  !  a  bear  indeed, 
Robert — now  I  should'nt  think  he'd  bear  that 
if  he  could  get  out  of  that  cage  ! 

Harry. — Well,  well,  but  what  is  the  name  of 
the  ugly  thing  ?  Will  you  please  to  tell  us. 
Father  ? 

Father, — Yes,  my  son,  it  is  called  the  Spectre 
Bat,  and  is  a  very  curious  animal,  as  much  de- 
serving your  notice  as  any  in  the  collection. 

Ellen. — I  never  heard  of  it  before. 

Robert. — Is  it  like  the  Yampyre  Bat,  Buffon 
tells  about  ? 

Father. — It  is  described  by  Buffon  as  well  as 
the  Yampyre  Bat,  which  it  resembles  more  in 
its  habits  than  in  its  appearance.  It  is  even 
sometimes  called  Vampyre. 

Ellen. — What  is  the  meaning  of  vampyre, 
father  } 

Father. — It  is  the  name  of  an  imaginary 
monster,  supposed  to  live  by  sucking  the  blood 
of  human  beings,  and  it  is  still  believed  by  some 
nations,  that  it  is  a  real  being,  and  that  persons 
whose  blood  is  sucked  by  a  Vampyre,  become 
Yampyres  in  turn,  and  rise  up  from  their  graves 
to  suck  the  blood  of  their  friends. 


=^ 


184  THE    SPECTRE    BAT. 


AIL — What  a  horrible  idea.  How  can  any- 
body believe  it ! 

Father. — How  indeed,  my  children  ?  and  yet 
they  do.  But  the  Yampyre  Bat  is  really  said 
by  naturalists  to  suck  the  blood  of  persons,  wljile 
asleep.  It  is  a  native  of  Africa  and  Asia,  and 
of  some  of  the  South  Sea  Islands.  But  this  is 
not  the  Yampyre  Bat.  It  is  the  Spectre  Bat, 
and  like  the  Yampyre,  it  sucks  blood,  chiefly  of 
cattle  and  other  animals,  but  sometimes  of  hu- 
man beings,  when  asleep.  It  is  smaller  than 
the  Yampyre  Bat.  The  yoke,  as  Harry  called 
it,  is  a  membrane,  which  it  expands  and  uses  as 
wings. 

JEllen. — There,  there,  I  was  right. 

Father. — The  Spectre  Bat  is  found  in  New 
Holland,  and  South  America.  Sometimes  such 
immense  numbers  are  seen  together  that  they 
look  like  a  black  cloud.  They  are  not  like  the 
common  bat,  given  to  frequenting  solitary  places, 
but  they  sometimes  darken  a  whole  street  in  a 
town,  by  flocking  to  it  in  such  multitudes.  The 
membrane  of  this  animal  can  be  stretched  out 
to  the  length  of  four  or  five  feet,  though  it  is 
ordinarily  folded  upon  its  body  as  you  see  it  now. 

Ellen. — I  cannot  bear  to  look  at.  it.  The. 
hateful  thing,  to  suck  the  blood  of  other  ani- 


THE    SPECTRE    BAT.  185 

mals,  and  even  of  men  when  asleep.     Is  it  very 
ferocious  in  its  habits  ^ 

Father. — By  no  means.  It  can  be  perfectly 
tamed,  and  so  suddenly  that  those  caught  in  the 
morning  will,  sometimes,  before  night,  eat  from 
the  hand,  and  in  a  week  be  just  as  domestic  as 
if  born  in  the  house.  An  English  officer  had  a 
female  of  this  species,  who  would  hang  upon  a 
perch  by  one  leg,  for  ten  or  twelve  hours  with- 
out change  of  position.  They  are  sometimes 
seen  in  the  forests,  hanging  in  this  way  to  limbs 
of  trees. 

Harry. — ^We  are  much  obliged  to  you,  father, 
for  your  kindness  in  telling  us  all  about  this 
'  winged  Guinea  pig'  of  Ellen's  ;  though  I  never 
should  have  taken  that  yoke  for  wings,  I  am  sure, 
and  that  pyramid  on  its  nose  looks  like  a  fool's 
cap  ! 

Robert. — -It  looks  like  a  third  ear,  and  I  should 
call  it  one  if  I  had  ever  heard  of  an  animal  with 
more  than  two  ears. 

Ellen, — Especially  "  a  little  bear,"  eh,  brother 
Robert  t 
[All  laughing — leave  the  cage  of  the  Spectre 
Bat.] 


.« 


186  BUSY    IDLENESS. 


BUSl    IDLENESS. 

Mrs.  Dawson  being  obliged  to  leave  borne 
for  six  weeks,  ber  daugbters,  Cbarlotte  and 
Caroline,  received  permission  to  employ  tbe 
time  of  ber  absence  as  tbey  pleased  ;  tbat  is, 
sbe  did  not  require  of  tbem  tbe  usual  strict  at- 
tention to  particular  bours,  and  particular  studies, 
but  allowed  tbem  to  cboose  tbeir  own  employ- 
ments ;  only  recommending  tbem  to  make  a 
good  use  of  tbe  license,  and  apprizing  tbem, 
tbat  on  ber  return  sbe  sbould  require  an  exact 
account  of  tbe  manner  in  wbicb  tbe  interval  bad 
been  employed. 

Tbe  carriage  tbat  conveyed  tbeir  motber  away 
was  scarcely  out  of  bearing,  wben  Cbarlotte,  de- 
ligbted  witb  ber  freedom,  bastened  up  stairs  to 
tbe  scbool  room,  wbere  sbe  looked  around  on 
books,  globes,  maps,  and  drawings,  to  select 
some  new  employment  for  tbe  morning.  Long 
before  sbe  bad  decided  upon  any,  ber  sister  bad 
quietly  seated  berself  at  ber  accustomed  station, 
tbinking  tbat  sbe  could  do  notbing  better  tban 


BUSY    IDLENESS.  187 

finish  the  French  exercise  she  had  begun  the 
day  before.  Charlotte,  however,  declined  at- 
tending to  French  that  day,  and,  after  much 
indecision,  and  saying,  "  I  have  a  great  mind 
to — ,"  three  several  times,  without  finishing  the 
sentence,  she  at  last  took  down  a  volume  of 
Cowper,  and  read  in  different  parts  for  about 
half  an  hour  ;  then,  throwing  it  aside,  she  said 
she  had  a  great  mind  to  put  the  book  shelves  in 
order,  a  duty  which  she  commenced  with  great 
spirit ;  but  in  the  course  of  her  laudable  under- 
taking she  met  with  an  old  manuscript  in  short- 
hand ;  whereupon  she  exclaimed  to  her  sister, 
"  Caroline,  don't  you  remember  that  old  Mr. 
Henderson  once  promised  he  would  teach  us 
short-hand  ?  How  much  I  should  like  to  learn  ! 
— only  mamma  thought  we  had  not  time  ;  but 
now,  this  would  be  such  a  good  opportunity.  I 
am  sure  I  could  learn  it  well  in  six  weeks ;  and 
how  convenient  it  would  be  !  One  could  take 
down  sermons,  or  anything,  and  I  could  make 
Rachael  learn,  and  then  how  very  pleasant  it 
would  be  to  write  to  each  other  in  short-hand  ! 
Indeed,  it  would  be  convenient  in  a  hundred 
ways."  So  saying,  she  ran  up  stairs  without 
any  farther  delay,  and  putting  on  her  hat  and 
spencer,  set  off  to  old  Mr.  Henderson's. 


§^^ 


%:= 


188  BUSY    IDLENESS. 

Mr.  Henderson  happened  to  be  at  dinner  ; 
nevertheless  Charlotte  obtained  admittance,  on 
the  plea  of  urgent  business  ;  but  she  entered  his 
apartment  so  much  out  of  breath,  and  in  such 
apparent  agitation  that  the  old  gentleman,  rising 
hastily  from  the  table,  and  looking  anxiously  at 
her  over  his  spectacles,  inquired,  in  a  tremulous 
tone,  what  was  the  matter  !  When  Charlotte 
explained  her  business,  therefore,  he  appeared 
a  little  disconcerted  ;  but  having  gently  reproved 
her  for  her  undue  eagerness,  he  composedly  re- 
sumed his  knife  and  fork,  though  his  hand  shook 
much  more  than  usual  during  the  remainder  of 
his  meal.  However,  being  very  good-natured, 
as  soon  as  he  had  dined  he  cheerfully  gave  Char- 
lotte her  first  lesson  in  short-hand,  promising  to 
repeat  it  regularly  every  morning. 

Charlotte  returned  home  in  high  glee  ;  she,  at 
this  juncture,  considered  short-hand  as  one  of 
the  most  useful,  and  decidedly  the  most  interest- 
ing of  acquirements  ;  and  she  continued  to  ex- 
ercise herself  in  it  all  the  rest  of  the  day.  She 
was  exceedingly  pleased  at  being  able  already  to 
write  two  or  three  words,  which  neither  her 
sister,  nor  even  her  father,  could  decypher. 
For  three  successive  mornings  Charlotte  punc- 
tually kept  her  appointment  with  Mr.  Hender- 


BUSY    IDLENESS.  189 


son  ;  but  on  the  fourth  she  sent  a  shabby  excuse 
to  her  kind  master  ;  and, -if  the  truth  must  be 
told,  he  from  that  time  saw  no  more  of  his 
scholar.  Now  the  cause  of  this  desertion  was 
twofold :  first,  and  principally,  her  zeal  for  short- 
hand, which  for  the  last  eight-and-forty  hours 
had  been  sensibly  declining  in  its  temperature, 
was,  on  the  above  morning,  within  half  a  degree 
of  freezing  point ;  and  besides  this,  a  new  and 
far  more  arduous  and  important  undertaking 
had  by  this  time  suggested  itself  to  her  mind. 
Like  many  young  persons  of  desultory  inclina- 
tions, Charlotte  often  amused  herself  with  writ- 
ing verses ;  and  it  now  occurred  to  her,  that 
an  abridged  history  of  England  in  verse  was  still 
a  desideratum*  in  literature.  She  commenced 
this  task  with  her  usual  diligence  ;  but  was 
somewhat  discouraged  in  the  outset  by  the  dif- 
ficulty of  finding  a  rhyme  to  Saxon^  whom,  she 
indulged  the  unpatriotic  wish,  that  the  Danes 
had  laid  a  tax  on.  But  though  she  got  over 
this  obstacle  by  a  new  construction  of  the  line, 
she  found  these  difficulties  occur  so  continually, 
that  she  soon  felt  a  more  thorough  disgust  at  this 
employment  than  at  the  preceding  one  ;  so  the 
epic  stopped  short,  some  hundred  years  before 

♦  Something  desirable. 


190  BUSY    IDLENESS. 

the  Norman  conquest.  Difficulty ^  which  quickens 
the  ardor  of  industry,  always  damps,  and  gener- 
ally extinguishes  the  false  zeal  of  caprice  and 
versatility.  Charlotte's  next  undertaking  was, 
to  be  sure,  a  rapid  descent  from  the  last  in  the 
scale  of  dignity.  She  now  thought,  that  by 
working  very  hard  during  the  remainder  of  the 
time,  she  should  be  able  to  accomplish  a  patch- 
work counterpane,  large  enough  for  her  own 
little  tent  bed  ;  and  the  ease  of  this  employ- 
ment formed  a  most  agreeable  contrast  in  her 
mind  with  the  extreme  difficulty  of  the  last. 
Accordingly,  as  if  commissioned  with  a  search 
warrant,  she  ransacked  all  her  mother's  draws, 
bags,  and  bundles,  in  quest  of  new  pieces  ;  and 
these  spoils  proving  very  insufficient,  she  set  off 
to  tax  all  her  friends,  and  to  tease  all  the  linen- 
drapers  in  the  town  for  their  odds  and  ends ; 
urging  that  she  wanted  some  'particularly.  As 
she  was  posting  along  the  street  on  this  business, 
she  espied  at  a  distance  a  person  whom  she  had 
no  wish  to  encounter,  namely,  old  Mr.  Hender- 
son. To  avoid  the  meeting  she  crossed  over  ; 
but  this  manoeuvre  did  not  succeed ;  for  no 
sooner  had  they  come  opposite  each  other,  than, 
to  her  great  confusion,  he  called  out  all  across 
the  street,  in  his  loud  and  tremulous  voice,  and 


%^ 


BUSY    IDLENESS.  191 

shaking  his  stick  at  her,  "  How  d'ye  do,  Miss 
Short-hand  1  I  thought  how  it  would  he  !  0 
fie  !  0  fie  !" 

Charlotte  hurried  on  ;  and  her  thoughts  soon 
returned  to  the  idea  of  the  splendid  radiating 
star  which  she  designed  for  the  centre-piece  of 
her  counterpane.  While  she  was  arranging  the 
different  patterns,  and  forming  the  alterations 
of  light  and  shade,  her  interest  continued  una- 
bated ;  but  when  she  came  to  the  practical  part 
of  sewing  piece  to  piece  with  unvarying  same- 
ness, as  usual,  it  began  to  flag.  She  sighed 
several  times,  and  cast  many  disconsolate  looks 
at  the  endless  hexagons  and  octagons,  before  she 
indulged  any  distinct  idea  of  relinquishing  her 
task  ;  at  length,  however,  it  did  forcibly  occur 
to  her,  that,  after  all^  she  was  not  obliged  to  go 
on  with  it ;  and  that,  really,  patchwork  was  a 
thing  that  was  better  done  by  degrees,  when  one 
happens  to  want  a  job,  than  to  be  finished  all  at 
once.  So  with  this  thought  (which  would  have 
been  a  very  good  one  if  it  had  occurred  in  proper 
time)  she  suddenly  drew  out  her  needle,  thrust 
all  her  pieces,  arranged  and  unarranged,  into  a 
drawer,  and  began  to  meditate  a  new  project. 

Fortunately,  just  at  this  juncture,  some  young 
ladies  of  their  acquaintance  called  upon  Charlotte 


192  BUSY    IDLENESS. 


and  Caroline.  They  were  attempting  to  estab- 
lish a  society  among  their  young  friends  for 
working  for  the  poor  ;  and  came  to  request 
their  assistance.  Caroline  very  cheerfully  en- 
tered into  the  design  ;  but  as  for  Charlotte, 
nothing  could  exceed  the  forwardness  of  her 
zeal.  She  took  it  up  so  warmly,  that  Caroline's 
appeared,  in  comparison,  only  lukewarm.  It 
was  proposed,  that  each  member  of  the  society 
should  have  an  equal  proportion  of  the  work  to 
do  at  her  own  house  ;  but  when  the  articles 
came  to  be  distributed,  Charlotte,  in  the  heat 
of  her  benevolence,  desired  that  a  double  por- 
tion might  be  allotted  to  her.  Some  of  the 
younger  ones  admired  her  industrious  inten- 
tions;  but  the  better  judging  advised  her  not 
to  undertake  too  much  at  once.  However,  she 
would  not  be  satisfied  till  her  request  was  com- 
plied with.  When  the  parcels  of  work  arrived, 
Charlotte  with  exultation  seized  the  larger  one, 
and  without  a  minute's  delay  commenced  her 
charitable  labors.  The  following  morning  she 
rose  at  four  o'clock,  to  resume  the  employ- 
ment ;  and  not  a  little  self-complacency  did 
she  feel,  when,  after  nearly  two  hours'  hard 
work,  she  still  heard  Caroline  breathing  in  a 
sound  sleep.     But  alas  !  Charlotte  soon  found 


BUSY    IDLENESS.  193 

that  work  is  work^  of  whatever  nature,  or  for 
whatever  purpose.  She  now  inwardly  regretted 
that  she  had  asked  for  more  than  her  share  ;  and 
the  cowardly  thought  that,  after  all,  she  was  not 
obliged  to  do  it,  next  occurred  to  her.  For  the 
present,  she  squeezed  all  the  things,  done  and 
undone,  into  what  she  called  her  Dorcas  bag  ; 
and  to  banish  unpleasant  thoughts  she  opened 
the  first  book  that  happened  to  lie  within  reach  : 
it  proved  to  be  "  An  Introduction  to  Botany." 
Of  this  she  had  not  read  more  than  a  page  and 
a  half,  before  she  determined  to  collect  some 
specimens  herself;  and  having  found  a  blank 
copy-book,  she  hastened  into  the  garden,  where, 
gathering  a  few  common  flowers,  she  proceeded 
to  dissect  them,  not,  it  is  to  be  feared,  with 
much  scientific  nicety.  Perhaps  as  many  as 
three  pages  of  this  copy-book  were  bespread 
with  her  specimens,  before  she  discovered  that 
botany  was  a  dry  study. 

It  would  be  too  tedious  to  enumerate  all  the 
subsequent  ephemeral  undertakings  which  filled 
up  the  remainder  of  the  six  weeks.  At  the  ex- 
piration of  that  time,  Mrs.  Dawson  returned. 
On  the  next  morning  after  her  arrival,  she  re- 
minded her  daughters  of  the  account  she  ex- 
pected of  their  employments  during  her  absence  ; 


^= 


194  BUSY    IDLENESS. 

and  desired  them  to  set  out,  on  two  tables  in  the 
school  room,  everything  they  had  done  that  could 
be  so  exhibited  ;  together  with  the  books  they 
had  been  reading.  Charlotte  would  gladly  have 
been  excused  her  part  of  the  exhibition ;  but 
this  was  not  permitted  ;  and  she  reluctantly 
followed  her  sister  to  make  the  preparation. 
When  the  two  tables  were  spread,  their  mother 
was  summoned  to  attend.  Caroline's,  which 
was  first  examined,  contained,  first,  her  various 
exercises  in  the  difierent  branches  of  study, 
regularly  executed,  the  same  as  usual ;  and 
there  were  papers  placed  in  the  books  she  was 
reading  in  school  hours,  to  show  how  far  she  had 
proceeded  in  them.  Besides  these,  she  had  read 
in  her  leisure  time,  in  French,  Florian's  Numa 
Pompilius,  and  in  English,  Mrs.  More's  Practi- 
cal Piety,  and  some  part  of  Johnson's  Lives  of 
the  Poets.  All  the  needle-work  which  had  been 
left  to  do  or  not,  at  her  option,  was  neatly  fin- 
ished ;  and  her  parcel  of  linen  for  the  poor  was 
also  completely  and  well  done.  The  only  in- 
stance in  which  Caroline  had  availed  herself  of 
her  mother's  license,  was,  that  she  had  prolonged 
her  drawing  lessons  a  little  every  day,  in  order 
to  present  her  mother  with  a  pretty  pair  of 
screens,  with  flowers  copied  from  nature  ;  these 


r^l 


BUSY    IDLENESS.  195 

were  last  of  all  placed  upon  the  table,  with  an 
affectionate  note,  requesting  her  acceptance  of 
them. 

Mrs.  Dawson,  having  carefully  examined  this 
table,  proceeded  to  the  other,  which  was  quite 
piled  up  with  different  articles.  Here,  amid 
the  heap,  were  her  three  pages  of  short-hand  ; 
several  scraps  of  paper  containing  fragments  of 
her  poetical  history  ;  the  piece  (not  large  enough 
for  a  dolPs  cradle)  of  her  patchwork  counter- 
pane ;  her  botanical  specimens  ;  together  with 
the  large  unfinished  pile  out  of  the  Dorcas  hag  ; 
many  of  the  articles  of  which  were  begun,  but 
not  one  quite  finished.  There  was  a  baby's  cap 
with  no  border,  a  frock  body  without  sleeves, 
and  the  skirt  only  half  hemmed  at  the  bottom  ; 
and  slides,  tapes,  and  button-holes,  were  all, 
without  exception,  omitted.  After  these  fol- 
lowed a  great  variety  of  thirds,  halves,  and 
quarters  of  undertakings,  each,  perhaps,  good 
in  itself  J  but  quite  useless  in  its  unfinished  state. 

The  examination  being  at  length  ended,  Mrs. 
Dawson  retired,  without  a  single  comment,  to 
her  dressing-room ;  where,  in  about  an  hour 
afterwards,  she  summoned  the  girls  to  attend 
her.  Here,  also,  were  two  tables  laid  out,  with 
several  articles  on  each.     Their  mother  then 

% ■  _  ^:z=:=^ 


196  BUSY    IDLENESS. 

leading  Caroline  to  the  first,  told  her  that,  as 
the  reward  of  her  industry  and  perseverance^  the 
contents  of  that  table  were  her  own.  Here, 
with  joyful  surprise,  she  beheld,  first,  a  little 
gold  watch,  which  Mrs.  Dawson  said  she  thought 
a  suitable  present  for  one  who  had  made  a  good 
use  of  her  time  ;  a  small  telescope  next  ap- 
peared ;  and  lastly,  Paley's  Natural  Theology, 
neatly  bound.  Charlotte  was  then  desired  to 
take  possession  of  the  contents  of  the  other  table, 
which  were  considerably  more  numerous.  The 
first  prize  she  drew  out  was  a  beautiful  French 
fan  ;  but  upon  opening  it,  it  stretched  out  in  an 
oblong  shape,  for  want  of  the  pin  to  confine  the 
sticks  at  the  bottom.  Then  followed  a  new  par- 
asol ;  but  when  unfurled  there  was  no  catch  to 
confine  it,  so  that  it  would  not  remain  spread. 
A  penknife  handle  without  a  blade,  and  a  blade 
without  a  handle,  next  presented  themselves  to 
her  astonished  gaze.  In  great  confusion  she 
then  unroUod  a  paper,  which  discovered  a  teles- 
cope apparently  like  her  sister's  ;  but  on  apply- 
ing it  to  her  eye,  she  found  it  did  not  contain  a 
single  lens  ;  so  that  it  was  no  better  than  a  roll 
of  pasteboard.  She  was,  however,  greatly  en- 
couraged to  discover,  that  the  last  remaining 
article  was  a  watch  ;  for,  as  she  heard  it  tick. 


'% 


%rz 


BUSY    IDLENESS.  197 

she  felt  no  doubt  that  this,  at  least,  was  com- 
plete ;  but,  upon  examination,  she  discovered 
that  there  was  no  hour  hand  ;  the  minute  hand 
alone  pursuing  its  lonely  and  useless  track. 

Charlotte,  whose  conscience  had  very  soon 
explained  to  her  the  moral  of  all  this,  now 
turned  from  the  tantalizing  table  in  confusion, 
and  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears.  Caroline  wept 
also,  and  Mrs.  Dawson,  after  an  interval  of  si- 
lence, thus  addressed  her  daughters  : 

"It  is  quite  needless  for  me  to  explain  my 
reasons  for  making  you  such  presents,  Charlotte. 
I  assure  you,  your  papa  and  I  have  had  a  very 
painful  employment  the  past  hour  in  spoiling 
them  all  for  you.  If  I  had  found  on  your  table 
.  in  the  school  room  any  one  thing  that  had  been 
properly  j^m^^ec?,  you  would  have  received  one 
complete  present  to  answer  it ;  but  this  you 
know  was  not  the  case.  I  should  be  very  glad 
if  this  disappointment  should  teach  you  what  I 
have  hitherto  vainly  endeavored  to  impress  upon 
you,  that  as  all  those  things,  pretty  or  useful  as 
they  are  in  themselves,  are  rendered  totally  use- 
less for  want  of  comjpleteiiess  ;  so  exertion,  with- 
out perseverance^  is  no  better  than  lusy  idleness. 
That  employment  does  not  deserve  the  name  of 
industry,  which  requires  the  stimulus  of  novelty 


m 


=% 


198  BUSY    IDLENESS. 

to  keep  it  going.  Those  who  will  only  work  so 
long  as  they  are  amused^  will  do  dd  more  good 
in  the  world,  either  to  themselves  or  others, 
than  those  who  refuse  to  work  at  all.  If  I  had 
required  you  to  pass  the  six  weeks  of  my  absence 
in  bed,  or  in  counting  your  fingers,  you  would,  I 
suppose,  have  thought  it  a  sad  waste  of  time  ; 
and  yet,  I  appeal  to  you  whether  (with  the  ex- 
ception of  an  hour  or  two  of  needle-work)  the 
whole  mass  of  articles  on  your  table  could  pro- 
duce anything  more  useful.  And  thus,  my 
dear,  may  life  be  squandered  away,  in  a  suc- 
cession of  busy  nothings. 

"  I  have  now  a  proposal  to  make  to  you. 
These  presents,  which  you  are  to  take  posses- 
sion of  as  they  are,  I  advise  you  to  lay  by  care- 
fully. Whenever  you  can  show  me  anything 
which  you  have  begun,  and  vohinidixWy  finished^ 
you  may  at  the  same  time  bring  with  you  one  of 
these  things,  beginning  with  those  of  least  value, 
to  which  I  will  immediately  add  the  part  that  is 
deficient.  Thus,  by  degrees,  you  may  have 
them  all  completed  ;  and  if  by  this  means  you 
should  acquire  the  wise  and  virtuous  habit  of 
jter sever ancCy  it  will  be  far  more  valuable  to  you 
than  the  richest  present  you  could  possibly  re- 
ceive." 


=ifg 


— % 

JOY    ON    MAY    MORNING.  199 


JOY  ON  MAY  MORNING. 

Come  sisters !  arise,  for  tte  morning  is  breaking, 
The  mist  from  the  meadow  is  stealing  away ; 

The  birds,  in  the  wild- wood,  their  sweet  notes  are 
chaunting 
To  hail  the  blithe  dawn  of  the  morning  of  May  ! 

The  white  thorn  is  blooming,  all  bright  in  the  hedges, 
The  buttercup  shines  in  the  meadow  so  green ; 

The  daisy  lifts  up  its  wet  eye  to  the  sunshine, 
And  the  crocus  peeps  out  the  gay  hedge-rows  be- 
tween. 

We'll   away  to   the  woods  while  the   dew-drops  are 
sparkling, 
Like  gems  on  the  flow'rets  that  smile  as  we  pass ; 
Ere  the  sun  has  dried  up  the  sweet  dews  from  the 
forest. 
Or  scattered  the  odors  that  lurk  in  the  grass. 

Then  away  !  then  away  ! — ^for  the  morning  is  passing, 
The  dew  is  departing  from  bud  and  from  leaf ; 

The  sun  o'er  the  forest  already  is  darting. 
And  casting  his  long  dancing  shadows  beneath. 


200  THE  new-year's  wish. 


THE    NEW-YEAR'S  WISH. 

Upon  a  certain  new-year's  day,  Edward  Vesey 
came  into  the  parlor,  just  before  breakfast  was 
ready.  He  advanced,  and,  with  the  greatest 
gravity,  saluting  his  father,  began,  in  a  solemn 
tone  of  voice,  as  follows  :  — 

"  As  formerly  the  Romans  were  accustomed, 
every  new-year's  day,  to  wish  their  friends  all 

happiness,  so  /,  thrice-honored  father,  come, • 

so  I,  thrice-honored  father,  come, — come, — 
come, " 

The  little  orator  here  stopped  short.  It  was 
in  vain  he  fretted,  rubbed  his  forehead,  and 
began  to  fumble  in  his  pockets.  The  remain- 
der of  this  excellent  harangue  was  not  forth 
coming.  The  poor  little  boy  was  vexed,  and 
quite  in  agitation.  Mr.  Yesey  saw  and  pitied 
his  embarrassment,  and,  embracing  him,  in- 
quired if  the  oration  was  his  own  composition. 

"  Oh  !  no,  indeed,  father,"  said  Edward,  ^'  I 
am  not  half  learned  enough  for  such  a  task.  It 
was  my  brother  that  drew  it  up.     You  should 


% 


THE    new-year's    WISH.  201 

have  heard  the  whole.  He  told  me  that  it  was 
in  periods ;  and  the  periods,  he  said,  were 
rounded  off  into  the  bargain.  I  will  but  run 
it  over  once,  and  you  shall  hear  it  then ;  or 
would  you  rather  hear  mamma's  }  I  have  that 
perfectly,  I  am  sure.  It  is  extracted  from  the 
Grrecian  History." 

"  No,  no,  Edward,  it  is  not  necessary  ;  and 
your  mother  and  myself,  without  it,  are  as 
much  indebted  both  to  your  affection  and  your 
brother's.'' 

"  Oh,  he  was  a  fortnight,  I  assure  you,  at  the 
%ork  ;  and  I  employed  much  time  in  learning 
them.  What  an  unlucky  thing,  that  I  should 
now  forget,  when  I  most  wanted  to  remember 
it !  No  longer  ago  than  last  night,  believe  me, 
I  delivered  the  whole  speech,  without  the  least 
hesitation,  in  the  other  room, — speaking  to  the 
clock,  if  it  could  but  tell  you." 

"  I  was  then  reading  in  the  library,"  said 
his  father,  "  and  to  comfort  you,  must  say,  I 
heard  it." 

"  Did  you  ?"  exclaimed  Edward,  with  anima- 
tion. "  I  am  glad  of  that !  and  do  you  not 
think,  father,  that  I  spoke  it  very  well .?" 

"  Surprisingly,  I  must  acknowledge,"  said 
Mr.  Yesey,  with  a  smile. 


=% 


202  THE  new-year's  wish. 

''  But,  really,  father,  was  it  not  very  fine  ?" 

"  Your  brother  has  quite  crammed  it  full  of 
eloquence,  I  allow,"  said  his  father.  "  And  yet 
I  should  have  liked  a  single  word  or  two  much 
better  from  yourself." 

"But,  certainly,  father,  to  say  that  I  wish  a 
person  a  happy  new-year,  and  nothing  else,  is 
far  too  common  to  give  pleasure." 

"  Yes  ;  but  why  nothing  else  ?  Could  you 
not,  previously,  have  thought  within  yourself, 
what  I  wished  most  of  all  to  enjoy  during  the 
course  of  this  new  year  .?" 

"Oh,  that  would  not  be  difficult.  You  wish, 
no  doubt,  to  have  your  health,  to  see  your  fam- 
ily, your  friends  and  fortune  flourish,  and  to 
enjoy  much  pleasure." 

"  Well,  do  you  not  wish  me  all  this  .^" 

"  Yes,  with  all  my  heart." 

"  Why,  then,  could  you  not  have  made  me 
up  yourself  a  compliment,  without  requiring  the 
assistance  of  another  .^" 

"  Really,"  replied  Edward,  "  I  did  not  think 
myself  so  learned  ;  but  it  is  always  so  when  you 
instruct  me  ;  I  find  out  things  which  I  did  not 
think  were  in  me.  I  can  now  make  compliments 
to  every  one  that  I  know.  I  need  say  nothing 
but  what  I  have  mentioned  just  this  moment." 

k  —  =^ 


y '•  "-=^ — 

THE    new-year's    WISH.  203 

"  It  might  apply  very  well  to  many  people," 
said  his  father,  "  but  should  certainly  be  diflferent 
with  respect  to  others." 

*'  Yes,  I  understand  you  pretty  well,  father  ; 
but  I  do  not  know  what  the  difference  should 
be  ;  so  please  explain  it  to  me." 

*'  Well,"  said  Mr.  Yesey,  "  there  are  a  mul- 
titude of  what  are  called  good  things,  that  one 
may  wish  any  person  to  enjoy  ;  such  as  those 
which  you  mentioned  just  now  ;  there  are  others 
that  refer  to  different  individuals  according  to 
their  situations,  age,  and  duties.  For  example  ; 
one  may  wish  to  a  person  who  is  happy  already, 
the  long  continuation  of  his  happiness ;  to  an 
unhappy  man,  the  end  of  his  affliction  ;  to  a 
man  in  office,  that  Grod's  providence  may  bless 
his  labors  for  the  public  welfare,  give  him  neces- 
sary penetration,  with  the  gift  of  perseverance 
to  continue  in  them,  and  establish  the  enjoyment 
of  felicity  among  his  countrymen,  by  way  of 
recompense  on  his  endeavors. 

"To  an  old  man,  one  may  wish  a  length  of 
life  exempt  from  every  inconveniency  ;  to  chil- 
dren, on  the  other  hand,  the  preservation  of 
their  parents,  progress  in  their  studies,  with  a 
love  of  the  arts ;  to  parents,  the  completion  of 
their  hopes,  in  bringing  up  their  children  ;  every 
=^ —  ^ 


204  THE  new-year's  wish. 

species  of  prosperity  to  such  as  are  our  benefac- 
tors, and  the  long  continuation  of  their  kindness. 
It  is  our  duty  even  to  call  to  mind  our  enemies, 
and  to  pray  that  God  may  show  them  the  in- 
justice of  their  conduct,  and  inspire  them  with  a 
wish  of  meriting  our  friendship." 

"  Oh,  father,"  exclaimed  Edward,  "  now  I 
shall  have  a  budget  of  compliments  for  every 
one.  I  shall  know  what  sort  of  wishes  they 
will  expect,  and  have  no  occasion  for  my  broth- 
er's rounded  periods,  as  he  calls  them  ;  but  why, 
as  we  should  always  have  these  wishes  in  our 
heart,  pray  tell  me  why  the  first  day  of  the  year, 
in  preference  to  any  other,  should  be  pitched 
upon  to  publish  them  .?" 

"  Because,"  replied  his  father,  "  our  life  is, 
as  it  were,  a  ladder,  every  step  of  which  is  rep- 
resented by  a  year.  It  is  natural  that  our  friends 
should  flock  together,  and  rejoice  with  us,  when 
our  foot  has  got  in  safety  on  the  step  next  to 
that  which  we  lately  trod,  and  to  express  their 
wish  that  we  should  climb  the  rest  with  equal 
safety.     Do  you  understand  me  .?" 

"  Oh  !  yes,  sir,  perfectly." 

*'  It  is,  however,  in  my  power  to  make  this 
clearer  still,"  said  his  father,  "  by  using  what 
we  call  another  figure.    Do  you  remember,  then. 


THE    new-year's    WISH.  205 

our  going  to  the  top  of  that  fine  church  in  Lon- 
don, called  St.  Paul's .?" 

"  Oh  !  yes,  indeed  I  do,"  said  Edward.  "  Oh, 
what  a  charming  prospect  from  the  golden  gal- 
lery there  !  Why,  you  remember,  we  could 
see  all  London,  and  a  great  deal  of  the  country 
from  it  !'Ji 

"  Grreenwich  Hospital  particularly  struck  your 
eye,"  said  his  father,  "  and  as  you  could  not  then 
have  any  notion  of  the  distance,  you  proposed 
that  we  should  the  following  week  go  there  on 
foot  to  dinner." 

"  Well,  father,  and  did  I  not  walk  the  whole 
long  journey  like  a  man  .?" 

"  Yes,  I  had  no  reason  to  find  fault  with  your 
performance  ;  but  remember,  I  took  care,  at 
every  mile-stone  on  the  road,  to  make  you  sit 
and  rest  a  little." 

"  So  you  did  ;  and  it  was,  in  my  opinion,  no 
bad  idea  at  the  first,  to  put  up  those  figured 
stones  beside  the  road.  One  knows,  at  any 
time,  what  distance  he  has  walked,  how  much 
is  still  to  come,  and  so  regulates  his  pace  ac- 
cordingly." 

"  In  this,"  remarked  Mr.  Vesey,  "  you  have 
yourself  explained  the  advantages  which  arise 
from  our  dividing  life  into  those  equal  portions 


=% 


206  THE  new-year's  wish. 


that  we  call  years  :  for  every  year  is  something 
like  a  mile-stone  in  the  road  of  life." 

"  I  understand  you,"  said  Edward  ;  "  and  the 
seasons  are,  perhaps,  so  many  quarter-miles, 
which  tell  us  that  we  shall  very  soon  arrive  at 
the  next  stone." 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  Mr.  Vesey,  ^  that  this 
little  journey  is  still  fresh  in  your  remembrance. 
If  you  take  it  in  a  proper  point  of  view,  it  will 
exhibit  a  true  picture  of  life.  Remember,  if 
you  can,  the  different  circumstances  that  took 
place  while  you  were  posting  on  to  Greenwich  ; 
tell  them  in  the  order  in  which  they  happened, 
as  well  as  you  are  able,  and  we  will  make  the 
application." 

''  I  should  scarcely  remember  the  whole  busi- 
ness better,  had  it  happened  yesterday.  At 
first,  as  I  was  full  of  spirits,  and  desired  to  let 
you  see  it,  I  set  out  upon  a  trot,  and  made  a 
number  of  trips  ;  I  do  not  well  know  how  many. 
You  advised  me  to  go  slowly,  as  the  journey 
would  be  rather  long.  Upon  the  way,  I  asked 
for  information  about  everything  of  which  I  did 
not  know  the  meaning,  and  you  gave  it  to  me. 
When  we  happened  to  go  by  a  bit  of  grass,  we 
sat  down  on  it,  and  you  read  a  story-book  that 
you  had  brought  out  in  your  pocket.     Then  we 


THE    new-year's   WISH.  207 

walked  again,  and  as  we  went  along,  you  told 
me  many  other  things,  both  useful  and  diverting 
likewise.  In  this  manner,  though  the  weather 
was  not  altogether  fine,  though  we  had  some- 
times rain,  and  once  a  hail-storm  to  encounter, 
we  arrived  at  Grreenwich,  I  remember,  very  fresh 
and  hearty." 

"  Very  faithfully  related,"  said  Mr.  Yesey, 
"  but  for  some  few  circumstances,  which,  how- 
ever, I  am  glad  you  have  not  introduced  ;  as 
for  example,  your  attention  to  a  poor  blind  man, 
whom  you  caught  by  the  arm,  if  you  remember, 
to  prevent  him  from  falling  upon  a  heap  of  stones 
that  lay  before  him,  and  on  which  he  might  have 
broken  his  limbs  ;  the  assistance  that  you  af- 
forded a  poor  washerwoman's  boy,  by  picking  up 
a  handkerchief  which  had  fallen  out  of  his  cart ; 
but  particularly  the  alms  that  you  gave  to  several 
people  on  the  road." 

"  Do  you  think,  then,  father,"  said  Edward, 
"  that  I  forgot  them  .?  I  know  that  we  should 
not  boast  of  any  good  that  we  may  have  had  the 
opportunity  of  doing  But  let  me  have  the  ap- 
plication that  you  just  mentioned." 

"  The  look,  then,  which  you  cast  round  you 
from  the  golden  gallery,  all  over  London,  and  a 
great  deal,  as  you  mentioned,  of  the  country,  is 

k  —  .=^Jt 


208  THE  new-year's  wish. 

expressive  of  the  first  reflections  of  a  child  upon 
the  multitude  about  him.  The  long  walk  that 
you  chose  to  G-reenwich,  is  the  journey  which 
we  propose  to  ourselves  through  life.  The 
eagerness  with  which  you  wished  to  hurry  on 
at  setting  out,  without  consulting  your  ability 
for  running,  and  which  cost  you  such  repeated 
trips,  is  the  natural  impetuosity  of  youth,  which 
would  excite  us  to  the  worst  excesses  if  a  faith- 
ful and  experienced  friend  were  not  to  moderate 
it.  The  instruction  that  you  have  derived,  as 
we  were  walking  on,  from  reading  and  conversing 
with  me,  and  the  actions  of  good  will  and  charity 
that  you  performed,  took  ofi"  from  the  fatigue  of 
such  a  journey  ;  and  you  finished  it  thereby  with 
satisfaction  to  yourself,  though  there  had  fallen 
much  rain,  and  even  hail. 

"  These  circumstances,  too,  convey  instruc- 
tion ;  for  in  life  there  are  no  other  means  than 
the  performance  of  our  duty,  to  keep  off  dis- 
quietude, and  to  cherish  peace  within  us,  not- 
withstanding those  vicissitudes  of  fortune  which 
would  otherwise,  perhaps,  go  near  to  overwhelm 
us." 

*'  Yes,  yes,  father,  all  this  suits  wonderfully 
well,  and  I  shall  have  much  happiness,  I  see 
beforehand,  in  the  year  that  is  now  begun." 
, -^  ,  ^ 


THE    new-year's   WISH.  209       I 


"  It  rests  with  yourself  alone,"  said  Mr.  Yesey, 
"  to  make  the  year  quite  happy  ;  but,  once  more, 
let  us  return  to  our  excursion.  Do  you  recol- 
lect, when,  in  going  round,  that  we  might  see  a 
little  of  the  Park,  we  came  upon  Blackheath  ? 
The  heavens  were  then  serene,  and  we  could 
see  behind  us  all  the  way  that  we  had  been 
walking." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  answered  Edward,  "  and  I 
was  proud  of  having  walked  so  far  !" 

"  By  proud^^^  said  Mr.  Yesey,  "  you  mean 
rejoiced.  Are  you  then  equally  rejoiced  at 
present,  while  your  reason,  which  now  dawns 
within  you,  pauses  and  casts  back  a  look  upon 
the  way  that  you  have  already  made  in  life  ? 
You  entered  it  quite  weak  and  naked,  without 
any  means  of  making,  in  the  least  degree,  pro- 
vision for  your  wants.  It  was  your  mother  who 
gave  you  your  first  food,  and  it  is  I  that  have 
the  forethought  to  provide  for  you.  How  do  we 
desire  you  to  repay  us  }  We  want  nothing  more 
than  that  you  should  yourself  endeavor  to  be 
happy,  by  becoming  just  and  honest ;  by  learn- 
ing your  several  duties  ;  and  by  seriously  in- 
tending to  discharge  them.  Have  you  then  ful- 
filled these  few  conditions,  no  less  advantageous 
to  yourself  than  easy }     Have  you  first  of  all 


%:^ 


210 

been  grateful  for  Grod's  goodness,  who  has  given 
you  parents  possessing  the  means  to  bring  you 
up  in  ease  and  honor  ?  Have  you  always  shown 
those  parents  the  obedience  and  respect  that  you 
owe  them  ?  Have  you  paid  attention  to  the 
precepts  of  your  teachers  ?  Have  you  never 
given  occasion  for  your  brothers  or  your  sisters 
to  complain  of  envy  or  injustice  in  you  ?  Have 
you  always  treated  those  who  wait  upon  you 
with  a  proper  sort  of  condescension,  and  at  no 
time  claimed  from  their  inferior  situation  what 
it  was  their  duty  to  refuse  you  ?  In  a  word,  do 
you  possess  that  love  of  justice,  that  equality  of 
conduct,  and  that  moderation,  which  we,  by  our 
instruction,  are,  at  all  times,  doing  what  we  can 
to  set  before  you  ?" 

^'  1  hope,  father,"  replied  Edward,  as  his  eyes 
were  bent  upon  the  ground,  ''  that  you  will  for- 
get the  past,  and  look  only  to  the  future.  All 
that  I  ought  to  have  done,  I  promise,  by  God's 
blessing,  to  do  hereafter." 

*'  I  accept  your  promise,"  said  his  father,  em- 
bracing him  ;  "  if  fully  kept,  you  may  be  per- 
suaded, it  will  ensure  your  happiness,  not  only 
throughout  the  year  you  have  just  commenced, 
but  throughout  your  life." 


§c —  — 

FAIRY    LAND.  211 


FAIRY    LAND, 

OR   JESSIE    AND    HER.    KITTEN. 

BY      CAROLINE      HOWARD. 

Give  me  your  whole  attention.  Open  those 
^  large  blue  eyes — not  too  wide,  for  they  frighten 
me,  and  whoever  heard  of  violets  frightening 
any  body  ?  Let  me  see  those  bright  lips  parted 
in  expectation,  and  those  fair  hands  clasped  as 
if  waiting  for  my  words — and  listen  to  me. 
This  is  a  regular  fairy  story — none  of  your  true 
and  true  stories,  but  something  as  fanciful  as  a 
bird  in  its  flight,  or  a  comet  in  its  course,  or 
anything  zig-zag  and  unreal  in  the  world. 

Said  little  Jessie  Harding,  one  day  to  her 
mother,  "  Mamma,  may  I  take  my  kitten  and 
go  into  the  woods  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  love,  but  come  back  before  twelve, 
— come  back  before  the  sun  scorches  the  pale 
flowers,  to  help  me  tie  up  my  creepers  on  the 
arbors,  and  before  your  papa  will  miss  his  little 
Jessie." 
%—.  —  — =- 


g^  —  =% 

212  FAIRY    LAND. 

"  Yes,  mamma,"  said  Jessie,  "  I  am  only 
going  to  teach  my  mocking  bird  a  new  song, 
and  to  wash  my  kitten,  and  to  gather  some  wild 

flowers,  and  to " 

"  Very  well,  dear,"  said  the  mother,  ''  go." 
And  Jessie  went  with  her  kitty  to  the  deep, 
still,  dark,  green  woods.  Did  she  ever  come 
back  again  ?  The  kitty  did.  If  you  shut  your 
blue  eyes  a  minute  you  can  see  her  in  imagina- 
tion, as  she  runs  with  her  kitten  in  her  arms  to 
the  fresh  cool  stream.  She  looks  almost  like  a 
fairy,  for  her  step  is  so  light  that  she  scarce 
touches  the  ground.  Her  white  dress  is  care- 
fully tucked  up  at  the  sides,  for  a  neat  little 
girl  she  is,  and  her  voice  rings  out  a  childish 
song  of  happiness  and  glee.  The  kitty  did  not 
like  the  washing  much,  but  Jessie  was  very  de- 
termined, and  scolded  or  coaxed  her  until  it  was 
all  over. 

*'  My  dear  Arabella  Victoria  Marie  Antonette, 
(that  was  the  kitten's  name,)  you  are  behaving 
in  a  very  shameful  manner,"  she  said :  "  it  is 
some  weeks  since  you  have  been  washed,  and  I 
am  washed  every  day  ;  you  must  not  scratch  me 
you  naughty  thing,  or  I  must,  duck  you,  and 
then  you  may  be  drowned.  No,  you  shant  be 
drowned,  there — you  are  almost  clean — ^just  let 
%  ~  *  -  ^ 


8^ 

FAIRY    LAND.  213 

me  wash  this  disagreeable  black  spot  from  your 
head,  and  all  will  be  over."  The  kitty  came 
out  of  the  stream  looking  very  miserable,  and  as 
if  life  were  a  thing  not  at  all  to  be  desired,  but 
Jessie  rubbed  her  T>hite  and  black  sides  quite 
dry  and  wrapped  her  in  a  shawl,  and  the  kitten 
slept  as  quietly  as  a  tired  child.  Jessie  then 
took  off  her  shoes  and  stockings,  and  sitting  on 
the  bank,  dipt  her  white  and  dimpled  feet  into 
the  glad  waters  and  laughed  because  she  had 
achieved  so  great  a  thing  as  kitty's  bath. 

"  My  !"  said  she,  clapping  her  hands,  "  didn't 
she  kick,  and  didn't  she  struggle,  and  didn't  I 
wash  her  infamous  eyes  and  her  disgraceful 
ears  !  Come  feet,  the  water  is  very  pleasant  no 
doubt,  but  home  you  must  go."  "  But  home 
you  must  not  go^^^  said  a  voice  near  her,  about 
as  loud  as  the  sound  of  a  guitar.  "  You  must 
fly  over  the  three  perils,  for  our  queen  has  fallen 
in  love  with  you,  and  haS  a  seat  prepared  for 
you  on  her  ivory  throne,  and  has  sent  me  to 
bring  you  to  her  !"  Jessie  looked  up  and  saw 
peering  into  her  face — a  fairy  !  Her  heart  beat 
violently  when  she  beheld  the  impudent  little 
creature  seated  in  a  bell-shaped  flower,  rocking 
away  like  a  child  in  a  swing,  and  uttering  those 
bold  words.     Her  heart  beat  quick,  but  she 


%z 


% 

214  FAIRY    LAND. 

gazed  steadfastly  at  the  Fairy  Queen's  messen- 
ger, until  the  rocking  motion  made  her  quite 
sea-sick.  He  was  a  gay  looking  little  fellow, 
with  a  rose  leaf  twisted  into  a  cocked  hat,  and  a 
jacket  of  rose  leaves  buttoned  with  dew  drops. 
He  had  a  reckless,  determined  air  about  him 
which  made  Jessie  tremble  even  while  she 
gazed.  However,  she  returned  his  glance  boldly, 
and  quietly  wiping  her  fair  feet  in  her  apron, 
she  put  on  her  shoes  and  stockings  and  took  up 
her  kitty  to  go. 

"  Put  down  the  kitten,"  said  the  fairy. 

"  I  would  like  to  oblige  you,"  said  Jessie, 
"  but  I  must  be  at  home  to  give  papa  his  lunch, 
and  I  have  remained  here  too  long  already." 

"  So  you  wont  go  when  our  Queen  invites 
you  ,^"  replied  the  fairy.  "  You  had  better 
come,  for  she  has  ordered  a  bed  of  humming- 
bird's down  for  your  ladyship,  and  a  cup  of 
coffee  made  from  ground  pearls.  If  you  will 
not  come  of  your  own  accord,  I  must  bring  you 
by  force." 

Jessie  was  frightened  now,  and  clasping  her 
kitten  more  closely  in  her  arms,  she  prepared 
to  run  home  ;  her  home  so  quiet  and  inviting, 
where  her  parents  were  listening  for  her  welcome 
step,  and  watching  for  her  beaming  smile.     As 


3tg 

FAIRY    LAND.  215 


the  fairy  perceived  her  intention,  he  turned  a 
somerset  over  the  branch  and  stood  directly  in' 
her  path. 

"  Stir  not  a  step  at  your  peril,"  said  he, 
siernly,  and  Jessie's  feet  refused  to  move  at 
her  will.  He  looked  with  his  bold,  bright  eyes 
at  the  kitten,  and  Arabella  Victoria  Marie  An- 
tonette  dropped  from  her  sheltering  arms  and 
sped  onwards  with  trot,  canter,  and  gallop  to- 
wards that  home  where  her  parents  were  listen- 
ing for  her  welcome  step,  and  watching  for  her 
beaming  smile.  Jessie  tried  to  follow,  but  the 
fairy's  spell  was  over  her,  and  she  could  not 
move  a  limb,  neither  could  she  speak.  He 
cruelly  produced,  from  she  did  not  know  where, 
a  gold  chain  which  clanked  as  he  wound  it  about 
her  white  and  delicate  arms,  and  binding  her 
wrists  so  tightly  together  that  it  hurt  her  tender 
flesh,  he  drew  her  onward  and  onward  to  the 
habitation  of  the  Queen  of  the  Fairies.  Whether 
it  was  in  earth,  or  sea,  or  air,  Jessie  knew  not, 
but  she  followed  her  guide  blindly,  with  her 
white  eye-lids,  which  he  had  breathed  upon, 
closed  upon  her  once  smiling  eyes.  There  were 
two  words  in  her  heart  which  she  tried  in  vain 
to  utter.  They  were  papa  and  mamma,  and  she 
thought  of  their  intense  sorrow  at  seeing  the 
%  ^ 


g^ 

216  FAIRY    LAND. 


^itten  return  alone  ;  their  desperate  search 
through  the  woods  ;  their  useless  search  through 
the  world,  and  their  agonizing  imagining  that 
she  might  be  sleeping  in  death  beneath  the  deep 
waters  of  the  leaping  stream.  But  this  mattered 
not,  nor  stopped  her  in  her  onward  course.  She 
knew  the  fairy's  chain  galled  and  tore  her  soft 
arms,  but  she  did  not  care  for  that — she  only 
cared  for  her  home,  so  quiet  and  inviting,  where 
her  parents  were  listening  for  her  welcome  step, 
and  watching  for  her  beaming  smile.  Some- 
times she  felt  that  the  air  was  hot,  sometimes 
cold.  Sometimes  she  knew  that  it  was  dark, 
and  again  a  light  appeared  to  beam  around,  but 
she  feared  no  changes  save  the  sad  change  in 
her  poor  parents'  hearts.  Suddenly  the  bold 
fairy  stopped,  and  coming  near  her  breathed  on 
her  shoulders.  Two  wings^nstantly  sprung  from 
them,  and  still  guiding  her  by  the  chain,  the 
companions  soared  aloft  and  onward,  and  then 
alighted  at  a  trap  gate  double  locked.  As  the 
fairy  knocked  three  times,  Jessie's  eyes  opened, 
and  she  looked  around  her.  The  immense 
brazen  gates  creaked  on  their  ponderous  hinges, 
and  groaned  like  sick  giants.  They  seemed  a 
boundary  to  an  inner  and  an  outer  world,  and  as 
she  entered  and  they  closed  upon  her,  Jessie 


% 

FAIRY    LAND.  217 


§4= 


felt  as  one  would  feel  who  enters  alive  into  a- 
grave. 

On  an  ivory  throne  sat  the  Fairy  Queen,  as 
beautiful  as  the  day.  Her  sweet  breath  per- 
fumed the  air  like  a  thousand  violets,  and  her 
haughty  and  determined  bearing  was  an  embodi- 
ment of  majesty.  She  smiled  as  she  beheld 
Jessie,  but  the  smile,  so  much  like  heat  lightning 
over  the  heaven  of  her  face,  was  exchanged  for 
an  expression  of  anger  too  terrible  to  be  borne. 

"  Slave  !"  said  she,  glancing  sternly  at  the 
fairy  who  had  so  cruelly  obeyed  her  mandate, 
''  is  this  the  way  to  execute  my  commands  } 
Did  I  order  you  to  wring  those  delicate  wrists 
with  your  inhuman  tortures  }  Did  I  order  you 
to  drag  this  mortal,  whose  presence  I  so  coveted, 
into  my  court  like  a  felon  }  Fie,"  continued 
she,  with  increasing  anger,  stamping  her  tiny 
foot  and  curling  her  ruby  lip,  "  you  so  called 
protector  of  injured  innocence,  you  mirror  of 
chivalry,  begone  !  What,  ho  guards,  confine 
that  fellow  for  life  in  the  east  bee-hive  prison." 

Jessie  pleaded  for  her  late  companion,  but  in 
vain  ;  and  she  felt  that  the  little  Queen's  man- 
date was  as  unalterable  as  the  laws  of  the  Medes 
and  Persians. 

Oh,  the   dreary,  dreary  days  in  the  golden 


-  — % 

218  FAIRY    LAND. 

jail  of  fairy  land ;  how  leaden  were  the  wings 
upon  which  they  slowly  sped.  And  yet  the 
Queen  did  everything  to  chase  away  the  deep 
and  settled  gloom,  which  shaded  the  face  of  the 
little  maiden.  She  gathered  gorgeous  jewels 
which  grew  in  clusters  like  flowers,  for  the  new 
favorite — she  culled  flowers  more  exquisite  than 
tongue  can  tell,  and  wove  them  into  chaplets  for 
her  hair.  Balls  were  given  in  her  honor,  where 
everything  bright  and  beautiful  tempted  her  to 
return  once  more  to  her  gay  mood.  But  alas  ! 
her  young  head  drooped,  and  spite  of  love,  and 
devotion,  and  pleasure,  her  homesick  heart 
sighed  for  the  simple  pleasures  of  her  country 
life.  Night  after  night  the  stranger  devised 
some  plan  of  escape  from  those  enchanted 
regions,  but  the  morning's  dawn  told  her  how 
useless  they  were.  Besides  the  brazen  gate 
which  guarded  fairy  land,  the  three  perils  arose 
to  her  imagination  to  shut  out  heaven  from  her 
view,  and  she  knew  that  if  she  attempted  to  es- 
cape, death  would  be  the  penalty.  One  day  the 
fairy  Queen,  blushing  like  a  rich  rose  bud,  called 
her  into  her  presence  and  said  these  words  : 

"  Jessie,  I  am  going  to  be  married,  to  the 
most  powerful,  the  noblest,  the  fairest  of  fairies. 
Hitherto,  I  have  found  no  one  worthy  of  my 


FAIRY    LAND.  219 

heart,  but  now,^^  added  the  exquisite  creature, 
hiding  her  face  in  a  sprig  of  Indian  creeper,  "  I 
have  found  the  idol  of  my  most  exaggerated 
dreams,  and  I  am  going  to  link  my  fate  with  his. 
We  are  to  meet  in  my  enchanted  castle,  some 
leagues  distant,  and  as  no  mortal  has  ever  been 
permitted  to  witness  such  a  ceremony  as  the 
nuptials  of  a  fairy,  I  must  leave  you  here  almost 
alone.  Only  two  guards  will  remain,  also  the 
prisoner  in  the  bee-hive.  He  endures  tortures 
every  day,  according  to  my  commands  ;  and 
remember,  when  I  am  roused,  if  my  wrath  is  so 
terrible  to  my  own  kind,  it  is  worse  th*an  terrible 
to  a  mortal  who  offends  me.  I  love  you,  Jessie, 
and  would  keep  you  with  me  always.  After  a 
time  your  deep  grief  will  subside  into  content- 
ment, your  contentment  into  happiness,  and  you 
will  become  like  one  of  us.  Beware,  I  say  again, 
of  attempting  to  escape.  It  is  useless,  utterly 
useless ;  for  beside  the  brazen  gate,  which  can 
only  open  to  my  fairy  lock-keeper,  yonder  yawns 
the  sea  of  fire  which  encircles  this  isle,  next  to 
that  the  mountain  of  ice — beyond  that,  the  gar- 
den of  fruit,  guarded  by  monster  giants,  whose 
frown  alone  creates  insensibility.  When  I  re- 
turn home  with  my  heart's  delight,  my  chosen 
love,  I  shall  study  your  happiness  more   than 


=  -  % 

220  FAIRY    LAND. 

ever,  and  I  shall  teach  him  to  love  my  Jessie 
too !" 

"  Oh !  Queen,"  said  Jessie,  passionately, 
and  falling  at  the  fairy's  feet,  "  I  thank  you  for 
all  your  kindness,  but  I  am  not  happy  here,  and 
I  never  can  be  happy  ;  night  after  night  I  weep 
whole  rivers  of  tears — night  after  night  I  pray 
that  your  hard  heart  may  be  softened,  and  that 
you  will  allow  me  to  return  to  my  own  home. 
Oh  !  if  you  would  only  let  me  go  back  to  my 
own  parents,  I  would  thank  you  so  much,  and  I 
would  tell  them  how  good  and  kind  you  were, 
and  how  so  great  a  Queen  made  herself  more 
noble  still  by  such  a  kind  action." 

"  Silence,"  answered  the  fairy,  sternly,  utter- 
ing the  first  harsh  words  that  she  had  ever  done 
to  Jessie  ;  "  a  whole  life-time  of  prayers  and 
tears  is  of  no  avail.  Here  you  are,  and  here 
you. must  remain,  for  my  commands  are  not  to 
be  disputed  ;  and  as  a  warning,  I  will  tell  you 
the  fate  of  the  only  mortal  beside  yourself,  who 
has  ever  been  within  these  gates.  I  loved,  as  I 
do  you,  a  bright,  brave,  frank  boy,  some  sum- 
mers older  than  you  are,  and  I  had  him  brought 
hither.  As  he  entered  my  dominions,  his  sweet 
smiles  faded,  and  the  demon  of  discontent  dis- 
figured his  lovely  face.  I  warned  him,  but  my 
% 


--% 


FAIRY    LAND.  221 


kindness  was  not  appreciated.  My  love  changed 
to  hate,  and  he  is  chained  in  the  garden  of  fruit, 
guarded  by  my  monster  giants.  Beware  of  the 
like  fate  !" 

Jessie  could  only  weep  at  this  terrible  tale, 
and  when  the  Queen  motioned  her  to  kneel  upon 
the  first  step  of  her  throne  that  she  might  kiss 
her.  brow,  she  did  so  mechanically,  but  she 
neither  felt  nor  cared  how  great  an  honor  it  was 
to  be  kissed  by  a  Fairy  Queen.  Then  the 
gorgeous  train  departed,  and  Jessie  was  left 
alone  with  the  two  guards  and  the  prisoner  in 
the  bee-hive.  She  had  heard  many  secrets 
since  her  sojourn  in  Fairy  Land.  She  had  seen 
flowers  growing  ;  she  had  learned  how  to  put 
seed  into  the  ground  which  in  one  day  would 
spring  into  a  plant  and  bear  glorious  blossoms  ; 
she  knew  in  what  plants  the  fiercest  poisons 
were  centered ;  and  the  difierent  powers  of 
poisons  were  known  to  her  also,  from  those 
which  would  create  insensibility,  to  those  which 
would  cause  instant  death.  When  the  bridal 
train  went,  she  remembered  these  things,  and 
her  little  brain  was  perplexed  in  finding  out  how 
to  turn  them  to  advantage.  She  knew  that  a 
mortal  could  never  cause  the  death  of  a  fairy, 
nor  did  her  tender  heart  desire  such  an  evil, 


^ 


222  FAIRY    LAND. 


but  she  hoped  to  be  able  to  create  insensibility, 
and  she  hastened  to  gather  the  flowers  of  a  cer- 
tain kind,  and  to  distil  them  for  her  purpose. 
This  she  was  only  enabled  to  do  at  night,  when 
the  guards  were  resting  from  their  labors  of  the 
day,  and  when  they  thought  that  she  was  secure 
in  sleep  herself.  At  last,  in  these  stolen  mo- 
ments of  trembling  anxiety,  she  completed  her 
work,  and  when  it'  was  over  she  prepared  to  put 
her  schemes  into  execution.  What  was  her 
work  to  be  ?     I  will  tell  you. 

Jessie  took  the  precious  vial  which  contained 
the  liquid,  and  in  the  deep  silence  of  night,  pro- 
ceeded to  the  sleeping  bower  of  the  drowsy 
guards.  They  thought,  they  dreamed  of  no 
harm,  and  her  light  tread  did  not  awaken  them. 
You  might  have  seen  her  eyes  glisten  like  dia- 
monds, as  she  carefully,  but  with  trembling  hand 
poured  a  drop  of  the  enchanted  liquid  upon  each 
eye-lid  of  the  sleepers.  You  might  have  seen 
her  placid  smile  of  content,  as  she  heard  the 
deep-drawn  sigh  of  each  fairy,  which  assured 
her,  by  the  knowledge  she  had  of  the  poison, 
that  it  had  taken  sure  effect,  and  that  they  would 
remain  insensible  for  many  nights  and  days. 
But  alas !  her  case  was  hopeless  still,  and  she 
was  almost  sorry  for  what  she   had  done,  for 


g^-— -  '     = 

FAIRY    LAND.  223 

there,  towering  up  before  her,  were  those  fatal 
gates,  and  she  sat  down  and  wept  at  her  own 
forlorn  state.  Suddenly  she  dried  her  eyes,  for 
she  remembered  the  bee-hive  fairy.  She  could 
not  attempt  to  escape,  and  leave  him  in  misery  ; 
so  she  formed  the  worthy  and  benevolent  design 
of  rescuing  him  from  his  captivity.  She  ran 
towards  the  prison,  and  heard  the  poor  little 
fellow's  groan's  before  she  had  quite  reached 
the  place. 

"  Little  sufferer,"  said  she,  as  she  approached 
the  formidable  hive,  "can  I  do  anything  for 
you  .^" 

"  Who  is  that,"  answered  a  forlorn  voice, 
"  who  speaks  so  kindly  ?  I  have  not  heard  a 
word  of  kindness  for  a  long  time.'' 

"  It  is  I,"  answered  Jessie,  "  who  have  come 
to  free  you,  and  if  you  promise  not  to  thwart 
me  in  my  plan  of  attempting  to  escape,  I  will 
let  you  out  of  this  miserable  dungeon.'' 

"  Oh  !"  answered  the  fairy ,'^ falling  upon  his 
knees,  "  this  is  really  rendering  good  for  evil. 
I  solemnly  declare  to  you,  that  if  you  will  have 
the  goodness  to  liberate  me,  I  will  not  only  thank 
you  and  be  eternally  grateful,  but  I  will  assist 
you  to  escape  ;  and  I,  who  would  not  be  safe 
here  longer,  for  my  doom  on  the  return  of  the 


224:  FAIRY    LAND. 

Queen  would  be  death,  will  go  with  you  and  help 
you  along  on  your  perilous  path, — and  then  when 
you  are  safe  at  home,  I  will  wing  my  way  over 
mountains  and  seas,  and  will  find  a  haven  of 
rest  in  some  fairy  tribe  in  distant  lands." 

Jessie  was  too  overjoyed  to  speak,  and  she 
silently  drew  the  bolt  of  the  terrible  bee -hive, 
not  without  some  danger  for  herself  from  the 
infuriated  tenants,  and  there  the  once  bright 
and  gentlemanly  fairy  stood  before  her,  his  gay 
apparel  stained  and  disfigured,  and  his  whole  ap- 
pearance altered.  He  ^again  bent  his  knee  to 
Jessie,  and  said,  in  accents  of  gallantry  : 

"  You  alone  do  I  acknowledge  as  my  Queen  ; 
you  alone  will  I  guide  or  follow,  as  the  case  may 
be,  to  the  ends  of  the  earth." 

The  fairy  had  unfortunately  lost  the  power 
of  flying,  for  the  wings  which  had  formerly  glit- 
tered on  his  shoulders  were  bruised  and  useless  ; 
so  the  little  mortal  and  the  fairy  consulted  to- 
gether with  earnest  intent,  for  a  means  of  es- 
cape. 

"If  we  could  only  get  over  those  brazen 
gates,"  said  the  fairy,  "  half  the  difficulty  would 
be  over,  but  alas  !  there  they  stand  at  the  very 
beginning  of  our  journey,  and  it  is  impossible  to 
pass  them  by,  as  the  keeper  who  opened  them 

^ 


FAIRY    LAND.  225 

for  our  entrance  has  gone  with  the  Queen  to  her 
marriage." 

*'  Ah,"  said  Jessie,  "  then  all  is  in  vain,  and 
we  must  remain  here,  subject  to  the  Queen's 
wrath  when  she  returns." 

As  the  little  maiden  said  these  words  she 
leaned  heavily  against  the  tall  brazen  structure, 
grief-bowed  and  despondent,  but  her  whole  frame 
shook  with  pleasure  as  she  felt  the  gates  yield  a 
little  to  the  pressure  of  her  light  form.  The 
fairy  perceived  this  also,  and  upon  examining 
them  more  particularly,  they  found  that  the 
gates  were  not  locked  at  all,  and  that  the  gate- 
keeper in  the  hurrynof  his  departure  must  have 
forgotten  to  do  his  last  duty.  Then  with  glad 
hearts  they  opened  the  gate  upon  its  groaning 
hinges,  and  gliding  out  found  themselves  still  in 
fairy  land,  but  out  in  the  broad  uncultivated 
fields.  Next  came  the  sea  of  fire  that  girdled 
the  whole  island  round.  When  Jessie  saw  this 
roaring  element,  this  ocean  of  flame,  raging  and 
boiling  up  near  her,  she  burst  into  a  passion  of 
tears.  Life  seemed  very  dark  to  the  child,  and 
she  almost  wished  herself  safe  again  in  the  pal- 
ace ;  but  it  was  too  late  to  retrace  hor  path,  for 
the  rage  of  the  Queen  was  more  terrible  than  a 
whole  universe  of  fire.     He  at  least  seemed  to 


226  FAIRY    LAND. 


know  wliat  to  do,  for  lie  told  Jessie  that  hidden 
in  an  immense  tree  near  the  bank  of  the  stream, 
was  a  boat  made  of  asbestos.  He  told  her  that 
this  was  a  kind  of  wood  upon  which  fire  had  no 
effect,  and  that  it  was  used  by  inferior  fairies 
who  came  to  visit  them,  who  could  not  fly,  or 
for  those  of  their  own  kind  who  had  accidentally 
injured  their  plumes.  Of  course  his  strength 
was  not  much,  for  he  was  weakened  by  his  long 
confinement ;  but  his  will  was  great,  and  he  as- 
sisted Jessie  to  draw  the  boat  with  its  two  as- 
bestos oars  to  the  brink,  and  never  was  vessel 
launched  with  such  rejoicings.  It  was  a  terrible 
thing  to  Jessie  to  find  herself  upon  that  strange 
sea,  almost  parched  with  the  overpowering  heat, 
but  the  watch-words — father  and  mother  ! — 
nerved  her  heart  and  her  arm,  and  the  mute 
couple  soon  found  themselves  over  the  narrow 
sea  and  at  the  opposite  shore.  It  was  an  easy 
thing  to  climb  up  the  low  banks,  and  setting  the 
boat  adrift,  they  watched  it  for  a  moment  float 
down  the  fiery  stream.  The  fairy  proposed  giv- 
ing nine  cheers,  but  Jessie  only  ofibred  up  a 
silent  prayer  of  gratitude,  and  went  onward  on 
her  journey.  It  was  a  day's  travel  from  the 
river  of  flames  to  the  mountain  of  ice,  and  the 
new  companions  trudged  bravely  along  the  same 


FAIRY    LAND.  227 


road.  The  fairy  entertained  Jessie  with  all  the 
adventures  of  his  life,  and  I  can  assure  you  that 
some  were  as  strange  as  the  one  in  \vhich  they 
were  now  engaged.  He  had  been  a  wild  fellow, 
and  he  was  a  merry  and  agreeable  one.  It  was 
to  Jessie's  advantage  that  she  had  such  a  tire- 
less companion  with  her,  for  had  she  been  alone 
her  spirits  must  have  died  within  her,  and  she 
would  have  become  faint  on  the  way.  She  said 
all  the  prayers  she  knew  to  the  fairy,  into  whose 
breast  she  hoped  to  instil  some  portion  of  grati- 
tude for  their  escape  ;  but  alas  !  he  only  laughed 
or  sung,  and  Jessie  smiled  through  her  tears  at 
his  antics.  His  voice  was^very  sweet  and  flute- 
like, and  this  was  his  favorite  song,  not  very 
good  poetry,  by  the  by : 

*'  Through  the  brass  gate. 

Over  the  sea. 
Nothing  can  stop 

Jessie  and  me. 

She  with  her  gentle  step, 

I  with  my  bold, 
Onward  will  go 

Through  the  heat  and  the  cold — 

Over  the  mountain 

Covered  with  ice. 
Through  the  broad  garden 

We'll  bound  in  a  trice. 


— = % 

228  FAIRY    LAND. 

Then  through  the  woods 

By  the  old  woodland  stream. 
We'll  find  ourselves  walking 

Like  folks  in  a  dream. 

Then  the  white  cottage 

We'll  spy  through  the  trees, 
No  more  we'll  be  prey 

To  monsters  or  bees. 

She  to  her  mother. 

With  arms  wide  spread  out ; 
She  to  her  father, 

With  glad  joyous  shout, 

I,  to  the  ends  of  the 

Broad  earth,  will  go. 
Feeling  the  sadness 

The  desolate  know ; 

Will  mourn  like  a  dove 
Bereft  of  its  mate" — 


Jessie  was  always  so  affected  at  this  point, 
that  she  never  heard  the  end  of  the  song  ;  for 
she  invariably  requested  the  fairy  to  stop  at  the 
word  "mate,"  which  request,  with  his  usual 
politeness,  he  granted.  But  at  last  serious 
times  came,  and  all  singing  was  suspended, — 
for  there  before  them,  like  a  huge  looking-glass 
% 


FAIRY    LAND.  229 

for  giants  and  monsters,  rose  the  tall  mountain 
of  ice.  How  were  they  to  cross  it  ?  They 
themselves  did  not  know  for  some  time,  but  at 
last  they  found  a  way.  Jessie  began  as  usual 
to  cry,  but  the  bold  fairy  kissed  her  flushed 
cheek  and  told  her  to  be  comforted,  and  he 
would  go  in  search  of  something  with  which  to 
scale  the  mountain.  He  remained  away  so  long 
that  Jessie  thought  he  would  never  return,  and 
she  was  just  about  to  give  up  in  despair,  when 
she  discovered  him  at  a  little  distance,  trailing 
along  a  kind  of  walking  stick,  with  a  mournful 
countenance. 

"  Alas  !  Jessie,''  said  he,  "  I  can  find  nothing 
but  this,  and  your  shoes  are  so  slippery  that  you 
will  never  be  able  to  climb  the  mountain,  and 
we  must  lie  down  here  and  die  !" 

Jessie  felt  in  her  pocket  for  her  handkerchief, 
(the  usual  refuge  for  the  distressed,)  and  a 
gleam  of  joy  lighted  up  her  countenance. 

She  had  exchanged  the  elegant  clothes  the 
Queen  had  given  her  for  those  made  by  her 
mother,  and  which  she  had  on  when  the  fairy 
found  her  by  the  stream.  In  the  pocket  then 
of  this  homely  dress  she  felt  a  hard  substance, 
and  drawing  it  out  she  discovered  that  it  was  a 
package  of  tacks  which  her  father  had  given  her, 


=5iS 


230  FAIRY    LAND. 


together  with  a  little  hammer,  to  make  a  cart 
which  her  kitten  was  to  draw.  The  desperate 
are  always  fruitful  in  inventions,  and  she  called 
the  fairy  and  told  him  her  plan.  It  was  this : 
to  insert  these  little  nails  firmly  in  her  shoes  so 
that  they  might  cling  to  the  ice,  and  thus,  to- 
gether with  the  staif,  she  hoped  that  they  might 
scale  the  mountain.  Nor  was  she  mistaken. 
But  how  was  the  fairy  to  ascend  ?  His  wings 
had  not  quite  grown  out  and  he  could  only  fly  a 
short  distance,  but  Jessie  volunteered  to  have 
him  percfi  on  her  shoulder,  which  the  little 
fellow  gladly  did ;  nor  did  she  regret  her  offer 
at  all,  for  when  she  was  weary  he  cheered  her, 
and  when  sad  he  encouraged  her,  until  they  ar- 
rived at  the  summit  of  the  Ice  Mountain.  They 
stopped  for  a  while  to  look  at  the  prospect.  It 
was  perfectly  sublime.  Trees  of  the  richest 
dyes,  birds  of  the  gayest  plumage  colored  the 
landscape.  The  golden  sunlight  played  over 
the  palace  of  Fairy  Land,  which  glittered  with 
its  thousand  jewels.  The  Sea  of  Fire  wound 
like  a  burnished  thread  through  the  woodlands, 
while  the  G-arden  of  Fruit,  although  distant, 
sent  its  exquisite  perfume  all  around.  Jessie 
gazed  quite  delighted,  and  seemed  inclined  to 
remain  there  forever,  but  the  fairy  reminded 


=^ 


FAIRY    LAND.  231 


her  that  they  still  had  a  great  peril  before  them. 
"  And,"  said  he,  shaking  his  head  and  shutting 
his  eyes,  as  near-sighted  people  do  in  order  to 
see  better,  "  I  distinguish  something  that  looks 
like  the  bridal  train  yonder  in  the  distance,  and 
we  must  be  up  and  going."  It  was  an  easy 
matter  to  descend  the  mountain.  They  slid 
very  quietly  down  to  the  bottom,  and  although 
Jessie  was  almost  frozen  to  death,  and  though 
her  cheeks  and  her  little  nose  were  as  rosy  as 
the  red  clouds  over  the  Lake  of  Fire,  her  heart 
kept  her  body  warm,  for  that  was  burning  with 
the  love  of  the  dear  ones  at  home.  At  the  foot 
of  the  mountain  the  fairy  brought  Jessie  some 
water,  in  one  of  her  shoes,  for  refreshment,  and 
a  few  bright  looking  apples  he  had  gathered 
from  one  of  a  group  of  rich  green  trees.  Jessie 
took  the  proffered  gifts  with  great  willingness, 
for  the  little  bag  of  provisions  she  had  brought 
from  Fairy  Land  had  nearly  given  out.  Indeed 
it  was  so  long  since  her  companion  had  tasted 
anything  like  tolerable  food  in  his  prison,  that 
he  ate  too  voraciously  of  her  store  to  enable  the 
supply  to  last  very  long. 

After  a  short  nap  under  the  inviting  cluster 
of  apple  trees,  which  refreshed  Jessie  very  much, 
she  looked  towards  the  last  and  worst  peril,  the 

ott ■  —       j5 


232  FAIRY    LAND. 


Garden  of  Fruit  Trees,  and  then  up  to  heaven, 
and  took  the  first  step  towards  the  dreaded  spot. 
It  was  a  whole  day's  journey  to  this  place,  and 
you  may  be  sure  that  the  travellers  made  a 
thousand  plans  to  overcome  the  dangers  which 
awaited  them ;  but  in  vain.  Nothing  would 
answer  ;  and  even  the  fairy  seemed  in  despair. 
He  looked  at  his  wings,  now  grown  quite  re- 
spectably, and  he  looked  at  Jessie,  and  shook 
his  head.  *'  No  !  even  if  I  could  fly,"  said  he, 
"  she  would  be  left  to  be  devoured  by  the  giants, 
and  I  must  not  suffer  that.  Oh,  no  !  I  could 
not  leave  this  gentle  and  generous  mortal  to 
perish  here  ;  and  yet  my  wings  have  grown 
finely,  and  I  dare  say  I  might  fly.  I  will  try. 
Her  feelings  will  be  dreadful  when  she  sees  me 
about  to  leave  her.  It  is  too  painful  to  think 
of;"  and  this  brave,  bold  coxcomb  spread  abroad 
his  small  wings  of  purple  and  gold,  and  soaring 
up  into  the  air,  gave  one  thought  to  liberty  and 
a  happy  home  in  distant  lands,  and  another  to 
the  child  who  stood  looking  up  with  wonder  in 
her  innocent  eyes,  and  in  an  instant  more  he  was 
by  her  side.  Poised,  for  an  instant,  between 
heaven  and  earth,  the  noble  fairy  formed  the 
~  resolution,  for  the  sake  of  Jessie,  not  to  go — a 
resolution,  I  think,  worthy  of  a  king.  He  placed 
%  -  ^ 


FAIRY    LAND.  233 


his  white  and  daintj^.  finger  upon  his  brow  for  an 
instant,  as  if  in  deep  thought,  and  then  said  to 
his  companion,  as  if  struck  with  a  new  idea, 
"  Have  you  the  vial,  and  is  there  any  more 
poison  in  it  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Jessie,  gladly,  holding  up  the 
vial,  which  she  had  in  her  bosom,  "  enough  to 
make  twenty  giants  insensible,  if  it  would  have 
such  an  effect." 

"  Certainly  it  would,"  returned  the  fairy  ; 
"  and  you  know  that  they  always  sleep  standing, 
at  the  entrance  of  the  garden,  in  order  to  be 
better  prepared  against  intruders.  This  is  my 
plan  :  I  will  take  the  vial,  and,  while  they  slum- 
ber, fly  near  enough,  with  noiseless  wing,  to  drop 
some  of  the  liquid  upon  the  eyes  of  each,  and, 
if  all  prospers,  we  shall  be  free.  But  remember, 
my  little  lady,  that  this  is  an  undertaking  of 
great  danger,  and  it  will  require  the  boldness  of 
a  Bonaparte,  the  skill  of  a  Wellington,  the  cau- 
tion of  a  Washington,  and  the  every  thing  of  a 
fairy  ;  and  it  must  be  done  in  the  night,  when 
the  giants  are  dreaming  of  breakfasts  of  little 
children,  dinners  of  boys  and  girls,  and  suppers 
of  men  and  women.  We  can  hear  their  snores, 
and  we  shall  know  by  that  when  to  approach. 
If  the  plan  succeeds,  they  will  remain  for  some 


234  FAIRY    LAND. 


time  insensible,  as  if  they  were  dead,  and  when 
they  awake,  hurrah  !  we  shall  be  far,  far  away 
from  their  dominions.  Do  you  fully  appreciate, 
madam,"  continued  the  fairy,  bowing,  "  the 
dangers  that  I  undertake  for  you,  and  the  way 
in  which  I  risk  my  most  precious  life  for  your 
sake  .?" 

Jessie  turned  away  to  hide  a  smile,  and  then, 
with  a  lovely  grace,  thanked  her  companion  for 
all  his  trouble.  It  was  really  a  most  peculiar 
undertaking,  and  how  it  was  accomplished  I 
know  not ;  but,  as  they  heard  the  snore  of  the 
giants  beat  the  air,  like  thunder,  the  fairy  bade 
Jessie  an  affectionate  farewell,  and,  mounting 
high  in  the  air,  with  the  precious  vial  in  his 
hands,  was  soon  out  of  sight.  Thump,  thump, 
thump  went  Jessie's  heart,  as  she  stood  behind 
a  tree,  as  if  that  could  shield  her  from  the  rage 
of  a  giant,  and  she  trembled  so  that  she  wished 
the  ground  might  open  and  take  her  in.  She 
clasped  the  tree  with  her  shaking  hands,  and, 
closing  her  eyes,  awaited  her  doom.  Hush  ! 
hush  ! — what  is  that  sound,  like  an  earthquake, 
that  stuns  her  where  she  stands  }  And,  hark  ! 
— ^yet  another,  and  a  groan  that  seems  like  the 
voice  of  a  multitude  !  Jessie  could  bear  it  no 
longer,  and,  giving  one  long  and  hopeless  scream, 
^=- 


FAIRY    LAND.  235 

fell  upon  the  earth,  fainting.  How  long  she  re- 
mained in  this  situation,  it  is  not  for  me  to  say, 
but  when  she  recovered  from  her  death-like 
swoon,  she  opened  her  eyes  upon  the  fairy,  who 
was  bending  over  her,  with  anxious  looks,  and 
sprinkling  water  upon  her  white  face.  He 
clasped  his  little  fingers,  with  an  air  of  grati- 
tude, and,  bending  on  one  knee  before  her, 
said,  "  Queen  of  the  woodlands,  we  are  free  ! 
But  your  majesty  cannot  praise  me  too  much 
for  my  valor  and  discretion.  Yes,  /  dropped 
the  liquid  upon  their  eyes — /  saw  them  fall — 
and  /  flew  here  to  tell  you  the  tale,  and 

To  take  you  home  to  your  parents'  arms, 
Where  you  shall  be  safe  and  free  from  alarms." 

Oh  !  how  exquisite  the  dawning  of  that  day 
was  to  our  little  flower,  Jessie.  Hope  raised 
her  bowed  head — hope  directed  her  willing 
steps— hope  nerved  her  tired  frame — and  her 
voice  burst  forth  into  song,  as  she  entered  that 
delicious  garden — the  Garden  of  Fruits.  She 
turned  away  her  head  from  the  prostrate  giants, 
for  she  did  not  care  to  look  upon  anything  re- 
pulsive and  disagreeable,  and  her  light  feet  kept 
time  to  the  music  which  her  voice  uttered  : 
%■■  •  — ^ 


236  FAIRY    LAND. 


"  Mother,  mother,  I  come  to  thee ; 
Open  thine  arms  to  welcome  me  ; 
Press  me  to  thy  yearning  breast, 
And  let  me  there  delighted  rest, 

Moth?r,  I  come  to  thee  ! 

Father,  father,  with  voice  so  mild. 
Welcome,  welcome  thy  truant  child ; 
Let  me  ne'er  leave  the  home  I  love, 
Till  called  to  the  brighter  one  above. 
Father,  I  come  to  thee  ! 

My  flowers,  my  birds,  my  kitten  dear, 
For  you  has  been  shed  the  bitter  tear  : 
No  more  shall  I  pine,  or  murmur,  or  sigh, 
As  my  steps  to  the  portal  of  home  draw  nigh. 
Sweet  home,  I  come  to  thee  !" 


As  Jessie  sung  the  last  line  of  that  song, 
which  gushed  out  of  her  heart  like  the  trill  of 
a  bird,  a  voice  took  up  the  measure,  but  in  a 
tone  so  sad,  so  broken,  that  the  tears  streamed 
down  her  face  as  she  stopped  to  listen.     It  said. 


'  Sweet  home,  sweet  home ! — no  more,  no  more 
Shall  I  see  the  home  that  I  adore  ! 
My  mother's  prayer,  my  mother's  smile. 
In  dreams  alone  my  heart  beguile. 

Mother  and  home,  good-bye. 

^ 


FAIRY    LAND.  237 


I  have  been  years  imprisoned  here — l 

My  youthful  heart  is  old  and  seer  : 

I  ask  not  joy,  and  the  whole  world's  charms, 

But  only  death  in  my  mother's  arms. 

Mother  and  home,  good-bye." 

Could  Jessie  hear  that  song,  and  not  search 
for  the  broken  heart  which  uttered  it }  I  think 
not.  The  warm  tears  stole  down  her  cheeks, 
and  her  hand  stayed  from  gathering  a  golden 
apple  which  hung  temptingly  near  her.  She 
looked  above,  below,  and  around,  and,  at  last, 
chained  to  a  luxuriant  nectarine  tree,  whose 
fruit  was  too  high  to  be  reached  by  his  emaciated 
hands,  she  saw  the  being  from  whose  despairing 
soul  that  song  had  issued — the  veritable  boy 
who  had  so  incurred  the  Fairy  Queen's  anger, 
with  his  dark  eyes,  shaded  with  their  long, 
drooping  lashes,  cast  down  in  despondency,  and 
the  fresh  morning  air  playing  with  his  damp 
curls.  Was  there  ever  such  a  bound  as  that 
which  Jessie  gave  to  his  side  }  Was  there  ever 
such  a  pitying  look  as  that  which  she  cast  upon 
the  chained  child  .?  Never  !  But,  then — Was 
there  ever  such  joy  on  any  human  face  when  he 
told  her  that  the  key  which  unlocked  the  chain 
was  hidden  under  a  large  stone  near  }  I  must 
say,  again.  Never !     Jessie  lifted  it — how,  I  do 


238  FAIRY    LAND. 

not  know,  for  it  was  a  very  heavy  stone  ;  but 
we  can  do  great  things  sometimes,  when  urged 
on  by  love  and  rectitude  of  purpose  ;  and,  while 
the  fairy  ate,  with  inexpressible  satisfaction,  the 
choicest  or  golden  pippins,  she  set  the  prisoner 
at  liberty.  And,  what  did  the  boy  do  when  he 
felt  the  great  load  taken  from  his  heart,  and  his 
body  unshackled  }  First,  he  thanked  God,  and 
then,  opening  wide  his  freed  arms,  welcomed 
Jessie  to  them,  as  a  brother  would  a  sister ; 
but  the  fairy  would  not  let  them  ask  or  answer 
any  questions  within  the  precincts  of  Fairy 
Land.  And  then  they  began  to  travel  in  good 
earnest ;  never  stopping  to  gather  one  of  the 
golden  apples  which  tempted  them  on  their  way, 
but  only  looking,  with  admiring  eyes,  upon  the 
.rich,  green  foliage  which  clothed  the  glistening 
/ruit  with  greater  beauty.  Of  the  trio,  I  think 
that  the  fairy  showed  the  most  happiness,  for  he 
was  here,  and  there,  and  everywhere,  talking, 
laughing,  and  singing  ;  but  I  am  sorry  to  say 
that  the  burden  of  his  song  was  always  his  own 
bravery,  or  his  own  beauty.  The  joy  of  the 
others  was  more  subdued  and  heartfelt  the 
nearer  they  advanced  towards  the  magic  spot 
of  home.  Jessie  learned  that  the  boy's  name 
was  Ernest,  and  that  he  had  lived  a  few  miles 


% 

FAIRY    LAND.  239 


^= 


from  her  father's  cottage.  She  vaguely  remem- 
bered a  poor,  desolate  widow,  who,  a  long  time 
ago,  had  come  to  the  homestead  to  inquire  after 
her  lost  child,  and  her  hopeless  and  despairing 
glance  still  remained  on  her  memory. 

And  has  Jessie  indeed  so  nearly  reached  the 
end  of  her  homeward  journey,  and  is  that  indeed 
the  stream  from  which  she  was  torn  away  from 
all  that  was  dear  in  life  }  Truly  she  has,  but 
the  fairy  is  no  more  there  beside  her,  like  a  ty- 
rant urging  her  on  her  way  towards  Fairy  Land  ; 
but  as  a  suppliant  on  one  knee  before  her,  he 
implores  her  in  the  most  affected  manner  to  for- 
give him,  actually  forcing  a  tear  into  each  eye. 
And  Jessie  freely  forgives  him  all. 

My  little  reader,  have  you  ever  been  tired 
and  sleepy,  and  have  you  found  rest  and  sleep, 
at  home  ?  has  unkindness  made  you  miserable, 
and  have  you  found  sympathy  and  happiness,  at 
home  ?  Then  you  may  know  how,  in  a  small 
degree,  to  sympathise  with  those  children  who 
stood  one  night — their  long  journey  over — look- 
ing through  the  window  of  the  cottage  at  the 
scene  within.  I  shall  look  with  them,  and  tell 
you  what  they  there  saw  and  heard.  The  soiled 
white  muslin,  which  draped  the  casement,  shaded 
them  from  view,  and  they  listened  as  for  their 


--% 


240  FAIRY    LAND. 


lives.  They  saw  a  poor  fire  burning  xipon  the 
hearth,  and  a  group  of  three  around  it — Jessie's 
father  and  mother,  and  the  childless  widow,  who 
had  been  so  long  robbed  of  her  son.  They  saw 
a  look  of  care  on  the  brow  of  each,  as  they  con- 
versed together.  Jessie's  flower  pot  graced  the 
low  mantle,  but  alas,  the  flowers  were  withered 
and  uncared  for.  Cages  were  there  too,  but  the 
birds  had  long  since  pined  and  died,  while  a 
solemn  looking  cat  moved  about  uneasily  and 
unnoticed.  The  father  heaved  a  long  deep  sigh, 
the  widow  sobbed  aloud,  while  the  wife  silently 
wiped  her  tears  away. 

"  It  is  of  no  use,"  said  the  father,  at  last,  ^'  to 
give  up  to  this  deep,  deep  grief  any  more.  The 
loss  of  my  child  should  not  make  an  idler  of  me. 
I  must  not  waste  my  years  unprofitably,  but 
must  go  about  my  daily  concerns  and  try  to 
make  the  cottage  more  comfortable,  and  the 
farm  more  productive,  for  those  who  are  de- 
pendent upon  me.  Wife  and  neighbor,  I  am 
ashamed  of  these  tears,  and  will  begin  to-morrow 
to  work  in  truth." 

''  Yes,"  replied  the  widow,  ^'  as  you  say,  its 
no  use  to  sorrow  ;  for  God's  will  must  be  done. 
A  brother  and  a  sister  have  you  been  to  me 
since  you  met  me  in  our  mutual  search  for  our 


=i« 


=% 


FAIRY    LAND.  241 


children,  and  Grod  will  reward  you  for  offering  a 
home  to  the  stricken  and  broken  hearted." 

And  Jessie's  mother  said  nothing  but,  "  My 
child  !  my  child  !  my  child  !" 

"  It  is  dark  and  mysterious,"  said  the  father, 
"  and  some  day,  here  or  hereafter,  we  shall  know 
more  about^it,"  and  then  a  tender  recollection 
overcame  his  manliness,  and  he  sobbed,  "  yes, 
here  night  after  night,  in  these  arms  did  her 
gentle  form  rest,  her  willing  feet  were  never 
tired  of  doing  for  others,  and  her  sweet  voice 
gladdened  the  hardest  heart." 

And  then  the  widow  passionately  exclaimed, 
"  Oh  my  lost,  lost  Ernest !  how  often  in  illness 
have  you  been  my  help  and  stay  ;  how  often  did 
your  hand  smooth  my  pillow  or  my  throbbing 
head,  how  oftezx  would  the  music  of  your  voice 
lull  me  to  sleep  or  cheer  me  with  accents  of  joy 
and  hope.  Ernest,  come  back  once  more  to  say 
'  good  bye,'  and  I  will  be  willing  to  part  with  you 
forever.  But  why  do  I  dwell  on  that  which 
never  again  can  be  c  hush,  heart ;  hush,  rebel- 
lious heart." 

And  Jessie's  mother  said  naught  but  "  My 
child  !  my  child  !  my  child  !" 

There  was  a  knock  at  that  cottage  door,  and 
the  boy  and  girl  stood  before  them  in  all  their 


=^ 


242  FAIRY    LAND. 

youth  and  beauty.  Poor  parents,  poor  deluded 
parents  ;  they  thought  that  it  was  a  dream  come 
to  mock  them,  and  they  smiled  at  each  other 
and  at  the  blessed  vision,  afraid  to  move,  lest 
they  should  disturb  the  exquisite  loveliness  of 
that  phantom  picture.  But  ah,  it  was  no  dream, 
husband,  and  wife,  and  widow  ;  those  children 
were  human^  and  yours^ — and  to  your  breasts, 
to  the  penetralia  of  your  hearts  you  took  them, 
and  perfect  joy,  and  perfect  love  spread  their 
white  wing  over  that  humble  cottage. 

When  all  the  rapture  of  the  meeting  was  over, 
then  came  the  story  of  the  adventures  of  each ; 
and  the  fairy  received  the  thanks  and  admiration 
of  all,  to  his  heart's  content.  His  relation  of 
all  that  had  happened  was  listened  to  with  great 
reverence,  and  nobody  blamed  lyjpa  for  making 
himself  the  hero,  and  everybody  loved  him  for 
his  daring  and  constancy.  Even  Arabella  Vic- 
toria Marie  Antoinette,  when  he  had  ended  all 
that  he  had  to  say,  gave  a  mew  of  approbation, 
and  rubbed  her  silken  sides  against  this  most 
potent  hero.  The  end  of  my  story  is,  that  that 
night  the  fairy  disappeared  from  the  happy  group, 
and  was  seen  no  more. 


THE    SECRET.  243 


,THE    SECRET. 

BY     JENNIE     EliDER. 

Bend  thee  down  to  me  and  listen, 
I  have  something  sweet  to  tell ; 

Ah  !  thy  dark  eyes  flash  and  glisten ; 
Hast  thou,  by  thy  spirit's  spell. 

Gained  the  secret  I  would  tell  ? 

"  No,"  you  say,  well,  then  come  near  me : 
Yester-evening,  when  the  moon — 

Anna,  loVd  one,  wont  you  hear  me. 
Why  away  so  very  soon  ? 

As  I  said,  'twas  when  the  moon 

Bathed  the  earth  in  softest  glory. 

Spangling  flower,  and  shrub,  and  tree ; 

Stop,  thou  shalt  hear  all  my  story  ; 
A  sweet  gift  was  given  me. 

By  one  who  should  be  dear  to  thee. 

Why  do  thy  eyes  more  brightly  glisten  ? 

Why  is,  with  sighs,  thy  bosom  stirred  ? 
**  False,"  you  say,  0  Anna,  listen. 

To  this  one  explaining  word  : 
'Twas  a  little  singing  bird. 


244  FANNY    AND    LOUISA. 


FANNY    AND    LOUISA 

Poor  Maria,  who  had  been  a  widow  two 
years,  was  working  alone  near  her  fire  :  it  was 
past  midnight,  and  her  two  little  children,  Fanny 
and  Louisa,  were  sleeping  upon  a  miserable 
bed,  when  somebody  knocked  at  the  door. 
Maria  arose,  a  little  alarmed  on  hearing  a  noise 
at  this  hour,  and  demanded  who  was  there  ? 

"  I  pray  you  give  me  a  light,"  was  the  reply  ; 
Maria  recognized  the  voice  to  be  that  of  Bridget, 
her  neighbor,  and  instantly  opened  the  door. 

"  I  have  frightened  you,"  said  Bridget,  as  she 
entered,  "  but  I  assure  you  it  was  very  far  from 
my  intention  ;  for  the  truth  is,  my  husband  must 
depart  very  early  to-morrow  morning  for  the 
fair,  and  I  have  just  recollected  that  his  gaiters 
want  some  repair, — so  I  got  up  to  do  them; 
but,  not  having  found  any  fire  on  my  hearth, 
and,  perceiving  a  light  in  your  house,  I  came  to 
ask  you  for  one." 

*'  You  are  very  welcome,"  replied  Maria  ; 
*'  but,  if  you  have  not  any  fire  in  your  house, 
% 


FANNY    AND    LOUISA.  245 

you  will  find  it  very  cold  to  work  without :  and, 
although  mine  is  very  small,  I  beg  you  will  bring 
your  work  here,  and  sit  with  me." 

"  Ah  !  very  willingly,"  replied  Bridget ;  and 
she  went  immediately  for  her  husband's  gaiters  : 
as  soon  as  she  was  seated  near  the  poor  widow, 
she  said,  "  I  prevent  you,  perhaps,  from  going 
to  bed,  Maria;  and  I  remember  you  were  up 
very  late  last  night." 

"Me  go  to  bed!"  replied  Maria,  "oh!  I 
don't  think  of  it,  I  assure  you.  It  is  necessary 
that  I  finish  spinning  this  thread,  without  which 
my  poor  little  ones  will  not  have  any  bread  for 
to-morrow." 

"  But,  are  you  not  punctually  paid  for  the 
time  you  pass  in  the  service  of  the  old  Marcella .?" 

"  Yes  !  but,  during  the  illness  of  Louisa,  I 
received  two  weeks  in  advance  :  I  now  wish  to 
repay  this  ;  and,  therefore,  must  work  six  days 
more,  as  I  at  present  do,  before  I  shall  have 
cleared  myself." 

"  And  during  this  time  you  intend  to  sit  up 
all  night,  after  having  worked  hard  the  whole 
day !  My  dear  neighbor,  you  will  not  be  able 
to  bear  it, — you  will  certainly  make  yourself  ill.'' 

"  Even  though  I  should  die,"  replied  Maria, 
sighing,  "  how  can  I  do  otherwise }     Shall   I 


-% 


246  FANNY    AND    LOUISA 

leave  my  poor  little  girls  without  bread,  or  not 
pay  what  I  owe  ?'^ 

"  Why  do  you  not  sell  something  to  relieve 
your  present  distress  ?" 

"  Ah  !  my  good  friend,"  replied  Maria,  "  it 
is  first  necessary  to  have  something  to  sell. 
Would  this  miserable  bed,  on  which  my  chil- 
dren repose,  bring  me  money, — or  the  mattress 
on  which  I  lie  ? — or  who  would  buy  this  old 
wormeaten  chest,  in  which  I  put  the  few  clothes 
we  have  ?" 

"No,  my  good  neighbor,  that  is  not  what  I 
mean  :  but  what  hinders  you  from  selling  this 
fine  sheep  that  you  have  ? — it  is  fat  and  young, 
and  I'll  engage  you  will  get  more  than  two 
guineas  for  it." 

"  Very  true,"  replied  Maria,  "  yet  I  am  not 
able  to  bring  my  mind  to  it,  the  children  love  it 
so  dearly :  shall  I  cause  them  so  much  sorrow  .'' 
Poor  little  darlings  !  it  is  the  only  joy  that  they 
have.  When  they  are  cold,  or  when  I  have 
only  a  morsel  of  dry  bread  to  give  them,  they 
amuse  themselves  with  their  sheep,  and  that 
consoles  them.  Alas  !  my  dear  neighbor,  par- 
don me  this  weakness  ;  but  I  prefer  sitting  up 
every  night,  to  afflicting  the  hearts  of  my  poor 


FANNY    AND    LOUISA.  247 

Maria  and  her  neighbor  chatted  thus  until 
day-break ;  when,  having  finished  their  work, 
they  separated.  The  widow  approached  her 
children's  bed,  and  found  Fanny  awake  ;  after 
giving  each  a  kiss  she  left  them  to  take  home 
her  spinning.  She  soon  returned,  with  a  small 
loaf  in  her  hand  ;  and,  after  dressing  her  two 
little  girls,  and  hearing  them  recite  their  morn- 
ing-prayer, she  departed  for  her  day's  work,  re- 
questing Bridget  to  watch  her  children  during 
her  absence,  as  usual.  Louisa  hastened  to  set 
the  sheep,  which  was  bleating,  at  liberty,  and 
the  two  sisters  conducted  it  to  the  pasturage,  in 
a  field  near  their  mother's  house.  Instead  of 
caressing  the  sheep,  as  she  was  accustomed  to 
do,  Fanny  regarded  it  with  a  thoughtful  melan- 
choly air  ;  for  which  Louisa  did  not  fail  to  re- 
proach her. 

"  What  has  poor  Sylvia  done  .?"  said  she  to 
her  sister  ;  "  you  look  at  it  as  our  mother  does 
when  she  is  angry  with  us.  Is  it  because  you 
do  not  love  it  any  longer  .?" 

*'  I  love  it  very  much,"  replied  Fanny  ;  "  but 
Louisa,  if  you  knew  what  I  heard  last  night, 
whilst  you  slept !" 

"  Did  not  you  sleep  then  ?"  demanded  Louisa. 

"  I  awoke  on  hearing  Bridget,  our  neighbor, 
%-  •  -  ■  ■-*»' 


§^ 


^% 


248 


FANNY    AND    LOUISA. 


conversing  with  mother  :  she  said,  *  if  you  thus 
sit  up  every  night,  you  will  fall  ill,  and  die  ;' 
and  mother  replied  to  her,  *  it  is  necessary  that 
I  should  gain  some  bread  for  my  children.' 
'  But  why  will  you  not  sell  your  sheep  .^'  asked 
Bridget.  On  which  mother  answered,  *  I  prefer 
to  die  rather  than  make  my  poor  children  so 
unhappy.'  They  said  much  more  :  I  listened 
without  saying  a  word,  and  have  found  out  that 
we  must  sell  Sylvia,  to  prevent  our  dear  mother 
from  dying." 

"  Sell  Sylvia  !"  replied  Louisa,  crying  :  "  it 
will  then  be  no  longer  ours  !" 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Fanny,  also  crying ; 
"  they  will  give  us  money  for  it,  and  we  shall 
not  any  longer  possess  the  sheep." 

"  Who  then  will  conduct  it  to  the  pasture  .^" 

"  I  know  not ;  but  it  will  not  be  our  pleasant 
task." 

"  I  will  not  sell  Sylvia  !"  exclaimed  Louisa, 
sighing. 

"  But  if  our  good  mother  should  die  !"  said 
Fanny  ;  "  do  we  not  love  her  better  than  we  do 
Sylvia .?" 

"  How  will  this  prevent  her  from  dying  .^" 
asked  Louisa. 

"  Do  you  not  understand  me,  then  ?"  replied 


FANNY    AND    LOUISA.  249 

Fanny  :  "  we  shall  give  Sylvia  for  some  money, 
and  shall  see  her  no  more  ;  but  this  money  will 
prevent  the  necessity  of  our  mother  sitting  up 
all  night  to  work  for  our  bread,  and  she  can  then 
sleep  as  we  do." 

"  Does  she  not  sleep,  Fanny  P^ 

''  Alas  !  no  ;  while  we  repose  from  night  till 
morning,  she  continues  sitting  on  the  hearth, 
and  spinning  all  night." 

"  Poor  dear  mamma  !"  cried  Louisa,  affected  ; 
"  let  us  sell  Sylvia,  in  order  that  she  may  sleep 
also." 

"  Do  you  really  mean  so,  Louisa  .^" 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  replied  Louisa,  weeping. 

''  You  will  not  change  your  mind  P 

''  No,  no,  I  will  not  indeed." 

"  Then  let  us  seek  Bridget ;  she  will  tell  us 
to  whom  we  can  sell  our  poor  Sylvia." 

The  two  children  went  to  their  neighbor,  and 
Fanny  imparted  to  her  the  resolution  they  had 
taken.  Bridget  praised  them,  and  confirmed 
them  more  and  more  in  their  good  design,  by 
making  them  comprehend  all  the  trouble  that 
Maria  endured  in  consequence  of  her  affection 
for  them.  "  Now,  my  good  little  girls,"  con- 
tinued Bridget,  ''  we  will  go  together,  and  take 
the  sheep  to  the  house  of  Francis  the  butcher." 


250  FANNY    AND    LOUISA. 

"  The  butcher  !''  cried  Fanny,  trembling  ; 
"  is  it  not  he  who  kills  the  lambs  ?" 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure  ;  it  is  necessary  to  kill  in 
order  to  sell  them.'' 

"  He  will  kill  Sylvia  then  P^  continued  Fanny. 

"  It  is  better  that  Sylvia  should  die  than  your 
good  mother  .?"  replied  Bridget. 

"  That  is  very  true,"  said  Fanny,  weeping. 

"  What  will  they  do  to  Sylvia  .^"  demanded 
Louisa  sorrowfully  of  her  sister. 

"  They  will  doubtless  do  the  same  to  her  that 
I  saw  them,  the  other  day,  do  to  a  little  lamb," 
replied  Fanny  ;  "  they  extended  its  throat,  and 
plunged  a  large  knife — " 

She  could  not  finish  ;  Louisa  held  down  her 
head,  and  cried  bitterly.  Sylvia  began  to  bleat 
at  this  instant ;  the  two  sisters  threw  themselves 
upon  her,  uttering  cries  of  despair,  so  that  Brid- 
get had  much  trouble  to  comfort  them.  At 
length  they  became  more  resigned,  and  con- 
sented to  take  their  sheep  to  the  butcher's. 
Each  of  them  took  Bridget  by  the  hand,  and 
walked  with  sorrowful  hearts  and  eyes  overflow- 
ing with  tears ;  Sylvia  gaily  followed,  without 
evincing  the  least  inquietude  at  its  fate,  brows- 
ing at  intervals  the  herbs  which  he  found  in  his 
path. 


U-^ 


8^  % 

FANNY    AND    LOUISA.  251 

On  entering  the  butcher's  shop,  Bridget  told 
him  that  Maria's  little  girls  had  come  to  sell  him 
their  sheep,  that  the  money  might  serve  to  sup- 
port their  mother.  Francis,  who  had  often  en- 
deavored to  prevail  on  Maria  to  sell  it,  instantly 
gave  two  pounds  for  it,  which  Bridget  delivered 
to  Fanny.  The  child  could  not  help  exclaiming, 
with  tears  of  joy,  "  Thank  God,  poor  mamma 
will  sleep  to-night !" 

Louisa  leaped  with  joy  at  this  idea,  and  would 
also  see  the  money  ;  but,  when  it  was  necessary 
to  quit  Sylvia,  the  cries  and  tears  were  resumed. 

"Alas!  Mr.  Francis,"  said  Fanny  to  the 
butcher,  "  if  you  could  keep  it  without  plunging 
your  great  knife  in  its  throat." 

''It  is  so  good,"  said  Louisa,  "  you  will  be 
much  pleased  to  see  it  follow  you,  and  eat  from 
your  hand." 

Francis  told  them  he  would  consider  of  it,  not 
wishing  to  grieve  them  any  more.  Sylvia  was 
shut  up,  and  his  late  young  mistresses  returned 
home  with  Bridget,  who  endeavored  all  the  way 
to  make  them  view  the  good  side  only  of  what 
they  had  done. 

When  Maria  returned  from  her  day's  work, 
her  two  little  girls  threw  themselves  into  her 
arms,  and  showed  her  the  money. — "  Look, 
%  ^ 


252  FANNY    AND    LOUISA. 

mamma,  you  no  longer  need  pass  the  night  in 
working  ;  you  will  sleep,  and  not  die." 

"  Where  does  this  money  come  from  .^"  asked 
Maria. 

"  We  have  sold  Sylvia,"  cried  Fanny. 

"  Yes,"  added  Louisa,  restraining  her  tears  ; 
"  but  Francis  said  that,  perhaps,  he  would  not 
put  his  large  knife  in  its  throat." 

*'  Poor  little  dears  !"  replied  Maria,  greatly 
affected  ;  *'  this  sacrifice  must  have  cost  you 
much  pain :  who  advised  you  to  do  so  .?" 

Fanny  related  to  her  moth(3r  what  she  had 
overheard  the  preceding  night — their  conversa- 
tion in  the  little  paddock,  and  what  had  followed. 
Maria  was  so  delighted  with  this  proof  of  their 
affection  for  her,  that  she  wept  with  joy,  and 
lavished  on  them  the  most  tender  caresses. 
Fanny  and  Louisa  would  not  go  to  sleep  until 
their  mother  was  in  bed  also  ;  after  which,  they 
embraced,  and  wished  each  other  a  good  night. 

Whilst  they  slept  together  upon  their  little 
bed,  at  the  side  of  the  good  Maria,  who  blessed 
Heaven  for  having  given  her  such  amiable  chil- 
dren, the  faithful  Sylvia,  shut  up  with  other  vic- 
tims like  itself,  bleated  sorrowfully  after  its  young 
companions  :  a  lady,  who  was  composing  an  in- 
genious History  in  an  apartment  near  the  butch- 


FANNY    AND    LOUISA  253 

er's  house,  was  annoyed  by  the  repeated  cries 
of  the  sheep ;  she  called  her  old  housekeeper, 
who,  instead  of  answering,  was  sleeping  in  the 
chimney  corner.  The  lady,  perceiving  her  in 
such  a  profound  sleep,  would  not  awake  her,  but 
went  down  herself  to  the  butcher  to  know  if  he 
had  not  any  means  of  silencing  the  bleating 
sheep  ;  when  the  butcher's  daughter  related  to 
her  all  that  regarded  the  poor  animal.  The 
lady,  affected  at  the  conduct  of  Fanny  and 
Louisa,  determined  to  recompence  them  by  re- 
turning their  faithful  Sylvia  :  she  therefore  re- 
purchased it  of  the  butcher,  intending  the  next 
morning  to  take  it  herself  to  the  cottage  of 
Maria  ;  but  scarcely  was  Sylvia  set  at  liberty, 
than  it  ran  bleating  to  its  first  home. 

On  hearing  its  well  known  voice,  Fanny  and 
Louisa,  who  were  still  in  bed,  jumped  up,  and 
hastened  to  open  the  door  to  Sylvia.  They 
called  Maria,  who  was  with  her  neighbor  Brid- 
get, and  showed  the  sheep  to  her,  with  trans- 
ports of  inexpressible  joy.  Maria  was  obliged 
to  change  this  joy  into  sorrow,  b}  declaring  to 
them  that  they  could  not  keep  the  sheep  with- 
out returning  the  money  ;  that  probably  Sylvia 
had  escaped,  and  therefore  they  must  immedi- 
ately take  it  back  to  Francis.     The  tears  began 


254  GO    AHEAD. 

to  flow  ;  Maria,  sensible  of  their  misery,  wislied 
to  return  the  money  ;  but  Fanny,  drying  up  her 
tears,  begged  her  mother  to  dress  her,  that  she 
might  go  and  return  Sylvia. 

The  lady  who  had  redeemed  the  sheep  arrived 
at  this  moment,  and  informed  the  two  sisters 
that  both  the  money  and  the  sheep  was  theirs. 
Maria  returned  the  most  grateful  thanks  for  her 
generosity  ;  and  Fanny  and  Louisa,  having  each 
of  them  made  a  curtesy,  began  to  caress  Sylvia, 
which  played  a  thousand  little  gambols.  The 
lady,  not  satisfied  with  haying  rendered  them 
thus  happy,  gave  more  money  to  Maria,  and 
retired  to  write  this  little  history. 


aO    AHEAD. 

Never  doubt  a  righteous  cause ; 
Go  ahead  ! 
Throw  yourself  completely  in  ; 
Conscience  shaping  all  your  laws, 
Manfully  through  thick  and  thin. 
Go  ahead ! 


HONORIA    AND    JENNY.  255 


HONORIA  AND  JENNY; 


HISTORY  OF  THE  DAUGHTEH  OF  AN  AMBAS- 
SADOR, AND  THAT  OF  A  COACHMAN. 

The  duke  of  Mirocles,  a  French  ambassador 
at  the  ottoman  court,  had  but  one  child  which 
was  a  girl,  named  Honoria.  A  liberal  education 
was  bestowed  on  her  :  she  had  masters  of  all 
descriptions  ;  and  they  placed  her  in  the  hands 
of  two  pious  and  respectable  women,  who  en- 
deavored to  make  her  love  religion  and  virtue  ; 
for  she  had  no  longer  a  mother. 

The  first  years  of  Honoria  passed  in  retire- 
ment, but  she  derived  from  it  no  benefit.  Im- 
patient to  appear  in  the  world  and  to  make  her- 
self conspicuous,  she  was  more  occupied  with 
ornamenting  her  person  than  storing  her  mind 
with  useful  knowledge,  and,  vain  of  the  rank 
which  her  father  held,  she  learned  nothing,  nor 
displayed  any  one  virtue  with  which  they  had 
sought  to  inspire  her. 


256  HONORIA    AND    JENNY. 

A  young  girl,  who  served  her  as  waiting-maid, 
had  profited  by  the  instruction  intended  for  her 
young  mistress.  This  was  Jenny,  the  daughter 
of  the  duke's  coachman.  The  caprices  of  Hon- 
oria,  to  which  she  was  constantly  exposed,  had 
given  her  an  unchangeable  complaisance  and 
gentleness  ;  but  these  two  qualities  did  not  pre- 
vent her  mind  from  having  a  firmness  in  virtue 
that  rendered  her  incapable  of  doing  -anything 
contrary  to  her  duty. 

Although  Honoria  never  ceased  to  torment 
her  with  her  fancies  and  ill-humor,  she  was 
nevertheless  very  partial  to  Jenny ;  so  much 
empire  has  real  virtue  over  the  heart.  The 
Duke  de  Mirocles  married  his  daughter  to  a  rich 
and  powerful  nobleman,  and  Jenny  still  con- 
tinued with  her  mistress,  and  accompanied  her 
to  the  house  of  her  husband. 

From  this  moment  Honoria  lost  sight  of  the 
sanctity  of  her  engagement,  nor  saw  in  her  mar- 
riage anything  more  than  a  door  opened  to  every 
folly  ;  and  she  gave  herself  up  entirely  to  pleas- 
ure. Immense  sums  were  sacrificed  daily  in  the 
most  frivolous  manner,  and  in  most  expensive 
parties,  which  drew  upon  her  the  remonstrances 
of  her  husband.  Jenny  herself  sometimes  dared 
to  take  the  liberty  of  warning  her  ;  but  Honoria 


IIONORIA    AND    JENNY.  257 

would  not  listen  to  anything.  One  day,  when 
she  was  at  the  waters  of  Aix,  in  Provence,  an 
English  gentleman,  with  whom  she  became  ac- 
quainted, blamed  her  extravagant  conduct,  her 
passion  for  play,  and  her  imperious  humor.  He 
at  the  same  time  bestowed  much  praise  on  Jenny, 
who  was  now  become  the  companion  of  Honoria  ; 
he  spoke  of  her  modest  and  reserved  deportment, 
the  sweetness  of  her  disposition,  and  her  good 
sense.  Honoria  heard  this  humiliating  com- 
parison, and  resolved  to  be  revenged  on  this 
young  Englishman,  by  marrying  him  to  the 
daughter  of  her  father's  coachman.  She  one 
day  called  Jenny,  and  declared  to  her  that  she 
would  marry  her  to  a  rich  Englishman,  if  she 
had  spirit  enough  to  second  her.  Jenny,  much 
surprised,  replied,  that  her  father  had  already 
chose  the  husband  he  destined  for  her  ;  and,  al- 
though she  had  never  seen  him  herself,  she  had 
sufficient  confidence  in  the  kindness  of  her  father, 
and  the  respect  that  she  owed  him  would  not 
permit  her  to  think  of  any  other. 

"  You  are  childish,  and  very  impertinent," 
replied  Honoria :  "  dare  your  father  say  any- 
thing when  I  speak }  and  cannot  I  do  more  for 
you  than  he  and  all  your  family  together  ?  and 
would  not  poor  Jerome  be  delighted  to  see  you 


258  HONORIA    AND    JENNY. 

become  the  wife  of  a  gentleman  ;  for  since  I 
must  tell  you,  it  is  a  young  English  nobleman 
to  whom  I  intend  to  marry  you  :  and  yet  you 
are  not  sensible  of  the  honor  I  intend  you." 

"It  is  so  great,  madam,"  replied  Jenny, 
"  that  I  cannot  conceive  how  a  nobleman  can 
think  of  the  daughter  of  a  poor  coachman," 

"  How  silly  you  are  !"  cried  Honoria  ;  "  can- 
not you  guess  that  it  is  necessary  to  hide  from 
him  for  some  time  the  lowness  of  your  birth  ? 
Thanks  to  the  partiality  I  have  had  for  you, 
your  exterior  has  something  more  about  it  than 
girls  of  your  rank  in  general.  I  will  carry  my 
complaisance  even  so  far  as  to  make  this  Eng- 
lishman believe  that  you  are  a  relation  of  mine 
falkn  into  misfortune. — Why  do  you  cry  .?" 

"  I  cannot  help  it,  madam  :  your  contempt 
for  me  is  too  apparent  in  this  circumstance  to 
be  supported  without  sorrow.  My  birth  does 
not  at  all  humiliate  me  ;  and,  though  my  re- 
spected parent  is  one  of  your  father's  servants, 
he  is  the  most  faithful  of  them.  But  I  blush  to 
think  that  you  believe  me  capable  of  deceiving 
an  honorable  man  ;  for  I  assure  you,  madam, 
I  have  no  desire  to  raise  myself  at  the  expense 
of  my  happiness  and  that  of  the  individual  you 
would  have  me  deceive  :  and  I  am  far  from  re- 


^  — 

HONORIA    AND    JENNY.  259 

garding  as  an  advantage  the  alliance  you  pro- 
pose ;  even  could  I  contract  it  without  imposi- 
tion, I  should  always  fear  that  my  husband 
would  not  treat  my  father  with  that  respect  I 
must  ever  consider  due  to  him." 

Honor ia  employed  in  turn  caresses  and  threats 
to  overcome  the  virtuous  Jenny  ;  but,  as  nothing 
could  make  her  deviate  from  the  path  of  virtue, 
she,  in  a  fury,  took  from  her  all  the  presents 
she  had  made  her,  and  sent  her  to  her  father's 
house. 

Jenny  now  occupied  herself  in  her  domestic 
duties  with  the  same  sweetness  and  simplicity 
she  had  those  of  waiting-maid  and  companion. 
She  married  the  man  that  her  father  had  chosen, 
who  was  a  locksmith  of  probity,  comfortably  set- 
tled, and  industrious. 

By  a  chain  of  events  which  frequently  happen 
in  courts,  the  Duke  de  Mirocles  was  disgraced, 
and  reduced  to  live  forgotten  and  solitary  in  one 
of  his  country-houses.  It  was  thought  his  only 
child  would  quit  the  busy  world  to  live  near  him, 
and  soften  by  her  tenderness  that  melancholy 
which  disgraced  courtiers  usually  experience : 
they  were  deceived  in  this  expectation  ; — Hon- 
oria  continued  her  pleasures,  and  gave  herself 
up  to  gaming  and  dissipation.     The  duke  was 


%::: 


260  HONORIA    AND    JENNY. 

SO  afflicted  at  the  conduct  of  his  only  child,  that 
he  died  of  grief ;  and,  when  his  daughter  heard 
of  his  death,  in  returning  from  a  ball,  she  shed 
a  few  tears  for  decency-sake,  and  retired  for 
three  months  to  one  of  her  estates,  taking  with 
her  all  those  companions  of  her  pleasures  which 
she  could  persuade  to  mourn  with  her.  At  the 
end  of  this  period,  she  again  returned  to  Paris 
and  its  gaieties. 

Whilst  this  insensible  daughter  was  thus  pub- 
lishing her  own  disgrace,  Jenny  was  performing 
the  last  sad  duties  at  the  side  at  her  father's 
bed.  The  old  man,  inconsolable  for  the  loss  of 
a  master  whom  he  had  served  forty  years,  soon 
followed  him  to  the  tomb  :  he  expired  in  the 
arms  of  his  affectionate  daughter,  more  happy  in 
obscurity  than  the  Duke  de  Mirocles  in  the  bosom 
of  opulence  and  grandeur.  Jenny  wept  a  long 
time  for  a  beloved  parent,  and,  though  still  young, 
she  shut  herself  up  in  the  bosom  of  her  family. 

Honoria  and  Jenny  were  now  become  mothers  : 
the  former  neglected  the  duties  of  this  state,  as 
she  had  scorned  those  of  daughter  and  wife  ; 
and  her  children,  consigned  to  the  care  of  mer- 
cenaries in  the  country,  were  abandoned  to  all 
the  vices  that  could  attack  their  youth  ;  while 
the  latter,  bearing  hers  in  her  maternal  arms. 


=:^ 

HONORIA    AND    JENNY.  261 

took  care  of  their  health  in  their  early  infancy, 
and  of  their  education  at  a  more  advanced  age ; 
her  sons  became  worthy  tradesmen,  like  their 
father, — and  her  daughters,  virtuous  and  happy. 

Honoria,  advanced  in  years,  was  yet  smitten 
with  that  world  she  could  no  longer  charm,  hav- 
ing now  lost,  by  late  hours  and  excess,  those 
attractions  she  once  possessed  ;  and,  half  ruined 
by  gambling,  she  was  always  quarrelling  with 
her  husband  and  her  own  children.  She  at 
length  became  an  object  of  disgust  and  ridicule 
in  company ;  and  the  more  she  endeavored  to 
disguise  her  age  and  vexation,  the  more  the 
world  took  a  wicked  pleasure  in  overwhelming 
her  with  the  keenest  satire.  Becoming  a  widow, 
she  found  in  her  own  children,  whose  minds  she 
had  neglected  to  form  or  improve,  instruments 
of  punishment ;  for,  to  put  an  end  to  her  ex- 
pensive follies,  they  had  her  shut  up  as  mentally 
deranged,  and  she  finished  her  days  in  a  convent, 
where  the  good  Jenny  was  the  only  one  who  at- 
tended and  endeavored  to  console  her. 

The  fate  of  Jenny  was  very  different ! — No 
one  could  behold  her,  with  her  husband  and  her 
children,  without  feelings  of  veneration.  Age 
only  rendered  her  more  interesting  ;  her  face 
still  wore  a  pleasing  freshness,  which  arose  from 


a  serenity  of  soul,  and  an  expression  of  virtue 
spread  an  inexpressible  charm  over  th^  whole 
countenance.  She  had  shown  herself  in  all  sit- 
uations so  worthy  of  esteem,  that  one  scarcely 
perceived  she  was  growing  old ;  her  husband 
and  children  were  happy,  and  saw  no  one  to 
compare  with  her  ;  even  Honoria,  on  receiving 
her  attentions,  could  scarce  persuade  herself 
that  they  were  both  of  the  same  age. 

Thus  you  see,  my  dear  young  readers,  that 
high  birth  does  not  preserve  us  from  the  per- 
versity of  the  heart,  and  that  virtue  is  amiable 
in  whatever  situation  it  is  found. 


HARRY  HART  AND  "OLD  BUCK." 


BY     A    liADY. 


Harry  Hart  was  about  ten  years  old.  He 
was  not  a  very  bad  boy,  and  was  generally  very 
well  liked  among  the  boys  of  Clarksville,  but  I 
am  sorry  to  say  that  when  made  angry,  he  had 
no   command  whatever  over   his   temper,   and 


HARRY    HART    AND    "  OLD    BUCK."        263 

used  then  to  do  things  he  would  be  very  much 
pained  to  remember. 

His  brother,  Lucius,  was  fourteen,  and  being 
an  amiable  boy  and  a  good  scholar,  was  a  greater 
favorite  even  than  Harry.  A  neighbor,  for  whom 
Lucius  had  done  some  rather  important  service, 
gave  him  a  fine  goat  as  a  token  of  his  gratitude. 
"  Old  Buck,"  as  the  boys  called  him,  was  a 
high-spirited  fellow  ;  he  would  allow  the  boys  to 
ride  upon  his  back,  but  always  resented  any  at- 
tempt at  imposition. 

One  day  Master  Harry  Hart  dressed  himself 
up  as  a  page  of  the  "  olden  time,"  and  getting 
on  his  steed  as  he  called  "  Old  Buck,"  he  played 
at  carrying  messages  to  and  from  noble  Lords, 
in  whose  employ  he  fancied  himself. 

"  Ah,"  said  he  to  himself,  ^'  they  used  spurs 
then,"  (you  will  see  Harry  did  not  know  that 
only  knights  wore  spurs)  "  well,  I  must  have 
some  spurs."  So  he  fastened  some  tacks  in 
a  piece  of  leather  and  bound  it  on  the  sides  of 
his  feet ;  then  he  again  mounted  the  goat  and 
spurred  him  on.  Poor  Buck  resented  such  cru- 
elty and  tried  to  throw  Harry  off,  which  he  at 
last  managed  to  do.  Harry  was  not  much  hurt 
by  his  roll  in  the  dust,  but  he  was  made  very 
angry,  and  getting  a  large  cudgel  he  struck 
■  ^ 


e^- 


264        HARRY    HART    AND    "  OLD    BUCK." 

several  hard  blows  on  the  old  goat's  head.  This 
blind  rage  had  its  reward ;  "  Old  Buck"  fell 
down  quite  dead,  and  in  this  state  was  found  by 
his  master,  young  Lucius.  The  conscience 
stricken  Harry  was  still  gazing  remorsefully  at 
his  victim  when  Lucius  came  up. 

"  Ah,  Lucius,  he  is  dead,  I  have  killed  him, 
what  shall  I  do  ?     What  do  you  think  of  me  .?" 

"  That  you  are  a  passionate  little  boy,  Harry, 
and  you  ought  to  be  thankful  that  it  is  only  a 
goat  you  have  killed.  Sometimes  I  have  feared 
you  would  kill  some  person  in  your  fits  of  pas- 
sion." 

Harry  learned  a  lesson.  He  always  thought 
of  poor  Buck  when  he  grew  angry,  and  after  a 
while  he  acquired  control  of  his  temper,  and  is 
now  a  good  man.  Perhaps  you  know  him, 
reader  ;  I  do. 


THE    END. 


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